Roof of the World

The idea began in my steamy apartment in South Korea, with kimchi jjigae bubbling on the stove and the noise of the town square drifting through the window. My friend Inge and I were teaching English, cameras rarely far from reach, and dreaming up our next adventure. Before long, we had tickets to Nepal, two sturdy packs, and new purple hiking boots that a salesman in Seoul assured us were “the best shoe.” We were going to Everest Base Camp.

First, we had to get out of Kathmandu. For four days, we sat in the airport waiting for the clouds to clear, drinking overpriced Nepali milk tea and watching our trekking days disappear. An Irish traveler named Podge recruited us into a helicopter escape plan, and we scoured the terminal for passengers willing to split the cost. When the weather finally opened, we could hardly believe it. Within minutes, we were crossing the tarmac toward a little helicopter and trading the noise of Kathmandu for the green folds of the Himalayas.

Our first evening on the trail, a local man slowed his pace to guide us toward Phakding beneath the stars. We arrived a little soggy, filled ourselves with dal bhat and hot milk tea, and crawled under quilts to the sound of the river. The next day’s climb toward Namche Bazaar quickly humbled our shiny boots and enthusiasm. Each bend revealed another stretch of uphill trail. Porters carrying enormous loads passed us steadily as we tried to learn something from their measured steps. When Namche finally appeared, tucked into the mountainside, two laughing children greeted us by tapping the backs of our tired legs with miniature walking sticks.

Higher we went, following the river’s course through the mountains toward its beginnings in ice. Clouds gathered around our teahouses, brushing against tin roofs, and mornings meant pulling on the same clothes and setting out again. Our days filled with walking, photographs, new friends, and the considerable business of finding enough to eat. Peanut butter and honey pancakes with garlic soup became an entirely reasonable meal. Extra Snickers bars became essential provisions.

Near the end of the trek, raincoats gave way to down jackets, and the trail toward base camp disappeared beneath fallen rock. We searched for footprints across the rubble-covered glacier, followed the signs of passing yaks, and eventually settled on a ridge strung with prayer flags. Unsure of our exact whereabouts, we declared it our base camp, unwrapped the chocolate we had carried all that way, and celebrated with photographs and thoroughly undignified victory dances. On a snowy July morning, surrounded by mountains, two friends in purple boots were hooting into the thin air.

When I think of that journey, I remember the immense landscape alongside its smallest comforts: a warm cup held between cold hands, a quilt after a long day, someone slowing down to show us the way. I remember sitting in a teahouse bedroom, listening to the stream outside my window and feeling almost impossibly lucky to be there.