Himalayan Traffic Jams (Everest - Part 4)

Turns out rush hour traffic on the downtown connector is a universal experience, even on a donkey highway in a remote corner of the Himalayas.

Today these beasts were not in the mood to move. Every few steps they'd stop, then herder starts yelling.

No result. He threatens them with violence. The dzopke (hybrid of yak and cow) begrudgingly lumber forward as slowly as possible. They go 10 feet and stop again. The process begins anew.

It's achingly tempting to try and pass the animals, given they are ruining my zone 4 workout for this month's Garmin cardio badge. However with the two pointy dangers in the front, the blunt force trauma from the back, and the chance of falling off the side of the mountain, daring moves are discouraged.

Eventually the road opens up and finally I get my first real glimpse of Everest.

With a sense of wonder and a touch of sadness I realize all the mountains I've seen before and all the ones I'll see after are just... hills.

To cap off a delightful day, the tea house is gloriously devoid of people and I get upgraded to the penthouse suite - equipped with my very own Western-style poop palace 🫶. I'm so delighted that I even fork over $7 for a hot shower. It's the last hurrah before I abandon my hair washing schedule.

Earlier today I stripped down to shorts and a tank after sweating through my clothes. It was quite the difference between me and the hikers covered head to toe, face mask included. They must be lizards, I am melting.

But tonight I'll be sleeping in doubles of socks, pants, and shirts, plus a puffer jacket and beanie hat, in a cocoon of two blankets. The penthouse doesn't have heat.

After a night of mother nature having a nice long cathartic cry, it's bright, clear, and crisp - but temperature is below freezing.

This morning I have to coax myself out of my pajamas. Unfortunately I forgot to put my day clothes under the blankets with me. Now we play a game of “Is this still wet or just cold”. Results are inconclusive.

My fingers are frozen. I decide on all the things are still wet, so today the outside of my backpack will be a makeshift clothes drying line. There's more clothes on the outside of my bag than there are inside. I've yet to master adequate layering without alternating between sweating and freezing.

I feel so cold that I end up in two layers of everything, including my summit gear.

It takes all but half a mile before I regret my overreaction. It's a brilliant blue and sunny day, and much of the trail is not shaded.

Fleece pants come off. Continue walking.

Puffer comes off. Continue walking.

Quarter zip comes off.

Now I'm stripped down to my base of leggings and a t-shirt. I've switched outfits less than 20 minutes in.

As I walk, I take hundreds of pictures of the exact same view, as if more nearly identical images will really help me memorialize the magical feeling of being here.

In typical Himalayan fashion we go up, down, up, down, and “flat” - which is still at least a 10% incline.

I'm feeling surprisingly good for sleeping 14k feet above sea level. For context, the tallest peaks in Colorado are 14k.

Like yesterday, this segment is shared by hikers and animals alike, which creates traffic at times.

The humans are ok - the slow ones know they are slow and purposely move over to get out of your way. They have enough awareness to be in the right most lane where there is one, or to pull over.

The yaks are a different story. That's like the beat up 1990 Honda with the custom purple wheels, driving 40 mph in the leftmost lane, with the driver under influence of some green plant making them think they are flying.

You don't want to be behind them because who knows what they will do next, and they are agonizingly slow. While I had to get out of the way of the donkeys, who are very enthusiastic about getting to their destination as fast as possible, the yaks saunter along.

So you wait. And wait. And wait.

There's an opening - a temporary widening of the trail, enough for a pass.

You turn on the turbo boosters and floor it, overtaking the yaks and putting some safe distance away from their magnificent but fearsome horns.

This move is effective but now it has a costly price - your heart rate skyrockets from the exertion. It's incredible how quickly elevation humbles you - what would not be given a second thought at 1k feet above sea level is a serious undertaking at 14k feet, with heart pounding and gasping for air consequences for the next 10 minutes. I'm no longer gunning for a cardio workout, but instead trying to stay in zone 2.

Aside from that occasional traffic jam it's a tranquil trail, with the roar of the river nearby and birds singing. The occasional helicopter does remind you that few places are sacred anymore.