A word or two on yaks

A short or long commentary on the Tibetan and Northern Himalayan yak. And my experience the last 2 weeks with them and the people and herders and yak wranglers that live with them. ( wouldn’t that be great to put on a resume….. I worked as a waiter at Applebees, ummmm ,,,,,, I had a paper route for a bit, and O’ ya I’m an accomplished YAK WRANGLER!! If there is such a thing)
Any how, a brief lesson to you all on how and why the yak is so important to the mountain villages and tribes. Because I found it all so amusing. And at some point went from wanting to strangle those hairy little buggers. To practically giving them a big I love you abominable snowman like hug.
First the yak provides a great means of transportation. Not by carrying people though. A yak is far too proud for that, though he or she has no problem carrying everything and I mean everything to anything you can think of. There are no cars, no roads, no streetlights, no telephone lines, or electrical lines, or anything of that sort leading from one village to another. Just good old fashioned muscle and feet or in this case hooves. So it is all carried in by Yak or by sherpa. These little guys (because Nepalese or sherpas are small by nature) carry the most unbelievably immense loads. Sometimes more then 4 times the size of themselves. Which is an odd and funny thing to see but also admirable.
But we are talking about yaks here. Yaks also provide warmth in their wool. Yak wool gloves (which I bought and love,-they also soak up snot well…..I had a bad cold-your hiking… A little snot rocket-Tissue is very expensive, they get you on that one-but the ground is free), Yak hats (a big seller!), Yak blankets ( God bless yak blankets-saved my skinny frozen butt), and a whole assortment of other wool goods they charge 10x the price for, the closer you get to Everest base camp.
Then there are the foods. Awww yes….Yak cheese-hard to stomach at first because it strangely enough has the taste and smell of yak Manure…….only slightly but its there. My lovely sister pointed this out to me on day 2 of 14. Made my meals very enjoyable, I couldn’t thank her enough for that insight. Then there is yak steak,,,,,,Wjich I had. You see ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, Yaks don’t laze about, like cows in the states on a nice quilted pasture land. Soft and supple, fat and lazy. Nope, yaks pull, and heft, and tug, and carry till the day they “accidentally” fall off a cliff(because your not supposed to kill a yak, they’re sacred-too close to cows really) So the meat you get is pure mountain muscle. The American Cow is like ….. well it’s like an American, well most Americans. A little to much sofa time watching American Idol or the like. Where as in the yak is like sven the Austrian mountaineer with his jiggly muscles, red suspenders, and stripped tubed socks. As he spends his free time doing cartwheels and handsprings up and down the mountains. So eating a yak steak can be like chewing on a car tire. Just the texture. Not that it tasted like that-God No! It was covered in chili peppers, So I didn’t taste a thing. ……………. For like 5 more hours. But at least I didn’t taste any manure. Which brings me to our final lesson on yaks for tonight. ……….. …….. ……… …… Yak POOP!
Yes yak poop or manure if you feel more comfortable hearing it that way. Well,,,, first off it’s everywhere. And not just the trails either. O’ sure it’s there to. Every tenth step is a step to dodge a yak pie in the middle of the trail. Which is a futile effort when your taking probably 500,000 or more steps in a trek or expedition of such length. So what would the math be on that you ask. How many yak pies am I vainly trying to escape? Well that would be 50,000 yak leftovers. But let me tell you it felt like 100,000. And for some reason they all have a knack for dropping a load at that bottom of the hill. As if they were carrying that heavy load and looked up all those steps, or that hill, or valley, or inevitably mountain. And just thought, O’ SH*#!!!! And let me tell you, when your hiking up to the tallest mountain in the world. Well,,, that’s a lot of ups. Which tells you that’s a lot yak….hmmmmm… leftovers on the trail. But like I said it’s everywhere.
Point in fact. While me and shell were walking through one of the sherpa villages being white western tourists we saw something I have never seen before. But something I very shortly came to appreciate and have a certain fondness for. We walked along watching some of the women in their thirties who looked to be in their fifties, digging for potatoes. And at the same time stopped to lean against a stone fence. Stones cleared from the fields. To watch some sherpa boys with their red sunburned cheeks, play a game of cricket on a field of cold dry dirt (Everything every where is dirt or stone). But anyhow normal day in the sherpa khumbu township. Harvesting, playing……….. you know life! So as we walked, an elderly local gentleman was walking the beat just like us. Bent over from years of carrying this, that, and everything else, from here to there, and a leathery face with so many wrinkles that his eyes and nose seemed to disappear in the folds. A face with a dozen pairs of crows feet on the sides of his eye, but a kind and gentle fellow with years of character and wisdom that I could only stand in awe and admiration of.
As he walked toward us, I saw that in one hand he was thumbing through his Buddhist prayer beads (Kind of like a rosary) and mumblig some prayers I couldn’t understand. But then suddenly, All those wrinkles parted from his face with huge smile of joy. And a grin bearing a tooth or two appeared. And being a smug Idiot, I thought “ It’s me! The tall American kid has brought this old tree a moment of Joy!” But then he stopped in the middle of the dirt road. Shoved his prayer beads in his waist coat pocket. And slowly stooping over scooped up a pile of fresh steaming yak pie as new as the morning. The smile on my face disappeared at the same rate of my eyes turning to the size of plates. And he just kept walking but stopped long enough to hoist it up to me. To show me what a catch, what a prize, what a great pile of yak poop he had just come upon before anyone else could get their hands on it.
Well I scratched my head and thought “ You’re in a different country! Things are different here!” I didn’t understand, but I was willing to live with that. Until I got a little further into town. Now in the sherpa towns there are miles of stone fences. And all the houses, lodges, smoke houses, sheds, outhouses, and the like are also made from stone cleared from the fields and pastures. So we’re talking millions of stones pulled, carried, and placed. And covering most of them are nice circular yak pies (Yak Poop!). Smashed, smushed, hammered, and beat onto these stones to dry out. We came to find out it was a daily chore. Clean your room, dust off the antique collection, do the dishes, and pound yak poop for a few hours. Or just flip them over like flapjacks! To dry the other side. So whole houses are covered in yak poop. And thus I found the last coveted contribution that the yak gives. Yak POOP! Which when dried is used like the American buffaloes poop was by the plains Indians. (Buffalo chips= firewood ….. or firepoop). But in this case yak chips. To keep all those family’s warm on many a cold winter nights. Especially when you live high above the tree line.
And let me tell you there were many a night I was calling, practically begging for more yaks coals to keep my cold little bum warm. That doesn’t mean I’m necessarily ready to pocket a handful yet. But I can appreciate how the Sherpa people live by the yak in every way. Much like the old plains Indians did with the buffalo. So long live the mighty yak. Provider of transportation, clothes, dairy products of (milk, cheese, and such), meat, and yes poop as well! So eat up fella’s I gotta keep warm at night. And speaking of night, it’s long past my bedtime and I’m staying up talking about yak poop! Too many days in the mountains……….

The story of the Pebble and Everest

The story of the pebble and perhaps one of the best days of my life. A day of plans and spontaneity. A day with beginnings and endings. A day I dreamt of for a long time. A day I had many expectations for over the last 10 years. A day that surpassed all those expectations I ever had and a day I will always remember.
It all started more then 2 weeks ago when we left on a small twelve seated prop plane to Lukla Nepal. Which by all rights was a small adventure in itself. Flying through the Himalayas at low altitude even though it really was high altitude because the mountains are so immense. Then finally landing on a tiny airstrip carved into the side of the mountains.
From there on for the next 2 weeks we had to haul all our own gear to Everest base camp and back. Which started on the ground running right from the get go. The first day we had to rush through 2 days worth of hiking to cross the park boundry. A new law was being put into place the following day that you had to legally have guide at all times in order to do any trekking in Nepal. Which wasn’t something we wanted to do. We made it to the Sagarmatha National Park boundry with 15 minutes to spare after running for six hours to get there in time. I do belive we were the last ones to enter the park and trek it independently before the new law was put into place. And so our journey began to Everest base camp. But the real story didn’t really begin until 10 days later for me.
On the 10th day of hiking uphill as slow as mules and always out of breath due to the altitude. Michelle and I reached the last village in the Khumbu valley. A village called Gorak Shep. One that was only open during the trekking season and most importantly the climbing season.
Gorak Shep sits on the edges of a dried out lake bed on one side and the Khumbu Glacier on the other. It is a cold and desert like place with only five lodges and one reason for existing in such a desolate place. Which is one you cannot miss. Gorak Shep sits in a boxed in canyon of giants. It is sheer himalayan walls of rock on every side, except the valley south you just spent 10-15 days hiking up. There are over twenty twenty-thousand foot peaks surrounding the valley on all sides. And the middle of all that and pouring down all the sides are the Glaciers. Sheer walls of soil, rock, and mountains of Ice and snow. But above it all at the roof of the world is Mount Everest. The Nepali call the mountain Sagarmatha, meaning ‘head of the sky’. Which makes some sense when you see that it is 29,035 ft. and still growing at about 6cm a year.
It isn’t the most majestic looking mountain. And it doesn’t have the most outstanding features. But it does make up for it all in size and location. A location that was a bit of a hike to get to. Well 10 days of vertical hiking. Every day of it ascending and slowly acclimatizing. The days are stunningly amazing and all start or end the same usually. You wake early at sunrise around 6:30 a.m. Roll catepillar like out of bed in your sleeping bag and yak blankets. Yawn to see your steaming breath and light from the warming sun coming through the valley. And usually you wake to a rooster crowing or the sounds of ringing yak bells walking by outside your window.
You have some hot porridge and a spot of hot lemon tea or coffee black. Everything is stowed in your bag the same each day, but you might be a granola bar and some gorp lighter. Essentials in the top are accessible. Warm winter hat, yak wool gloves, camera in your pocket, a snack, enough purified water, map and guide book, deoderant, toothbrush, hand sanitizer, and of course toilet paper. You pay your 600 ruppees for services rendred and head out into the morning cold. Huddeling you arms close to keep warm. But a half hour later you strip off the gloves, the hat, the two jackets, and wished you hadn’t left your thermal underwear on.
You hike uphill at a pace slower then a walk to your car. You starte hiking in green bamboo fertile valleys with terraced rice fields. Valley walls are mossy and filled with streams and towering waterfalls hundreds of feet above you. And you hike along the Khumbu river. A torrent of freezing glacial water as blue as the glaciers. It races by you over slate grey rocks cleared out of the forest to the warm tropical heat in the valleys of southern Nepal below. You hike up along these valley walls and spongy wet villages. The forest changes into pines and rhodendrons. But soon you climb past those through forests of red birch pealing with long spider web like green moss draping through the forest everywhere. And then your above it all on top of the sloping hills. With brown and amber boulder strewn grass with golden ferns. Soon it is just small shrubs and bushs. But most are in the autumn season so they are red, burgundy, or sienna and nothing obstructs your view of the mountains around you but smaller mountains and long wind swept valleys that you have to find your way up into.
Trails leading up for miles and miles, and what seem to be a mile above your head. All the while you are hiking a road or trail from 2ft wide to a foot wide. Suspension bridges spanning a city block cross rivers and canyons. Villages centuries old sit high on ledges or in the tucked in valleys. Lodges and houses made from the very stone cleared from the ground. A common noise in the villages is the sound of rock being chiseled and hammered one block at a time. A timeless sound but one you don’t hear in the states any more. A mid-evil sound, one that brings to mind knights and castles. Sprinkled throughout the trail are the prayer wheels some spinning continually. Powered from the streams that run out of the mountains. Like mill houses only prayer houses. There are countless Mani prayer stones a year to thousand years old. There literally Thousands and thousands of them. Sometimes stacked like a wall a few hundred feet long. They look like the ten commandments. Others are covering boulders bigger then apartment buildings. There are white robust Stupas big and small everywhere and always with a great view and always with the all seeing eyes of the Buddha. And every third or fourth town has a Gompa or buddhist monastery. All weathered and old and decorated in burgundy red and gold. The same colors of the robes the monks wear. Most of all though are the Tibetan prayer flags. They fly from soaring heights, from bridges, from every home and every imaginable place. They are every where and they are beautiful.
But mostly on the trail are the small hardworking Yaks, porters, guides, and sherpas. Carrying immense loads on they’re backs in whicker baskets with a strap that is tied to they’re forehead. One cannot not be impressed with the loads these men and women carry. Old and young everyone has to carry they’re own weight up and down the mountains. It is a way of life and part of a daily routine. No matter where you are going it is up or down and it is on foot, since there are no roads or vehicles. It is all done the old fashioned way. Everything is packed up and carried in. And you have to see it to believe what and how much these people can carry. How fleet footed and easily they can do it. But it is a hard life. So for a very short period of time you live a life very similar to everyone else walking the trail with you. And the respect goes both ways though we each stare and try to figure out how or why.
Soon you have hiked up out of the high alpine valley and the world above becomes dryer, windier, colder, and more arid then most deserts with every step you take up toward the top. And you begin to enter the death zone. Above 5500 meters nothing lives but snow and rock. Even getting into a sleeping bag puts you out of breath at night. You dream cold and lucidly. Sleep is hard to come by but there is plenty of it.
After you’ve left in the morning you hike through to the afternoon. Seeing sights and mountains you hoped existed and all day you see that they do. You see all these wonders. You take a few breaks. Usually one with a view. You find your lodge. ($3 dollars a night) you have some hot sherpa stew and a large thermos of hot tea. And then ladle in the Dahl baht. A Nepali staple of Rice, curried vegetables and lentil stew poured over the top. You write about the day with the help of your head lamp, play cards, read or talk with travelers or sherpas seen on the trail coming or going. But most importantly you huddle close to a big black metal furnace. Heated with yak chips collected, dried, and used for fuel. You stay as long as you can, because the nights are cold and come early at 5 p.m. Your usually in your sleeping bag by 8 p.m. and you stay there all night, hoping to god you didn’t drink to much tea. That you won’t have to make a late night visit to the loo. You lay there all night hoping you sleep well and that altitude hasn’t gotten to you. Hoping you sleep the long night through. (By the way, high altitude makes people really gassy-so your in a dutch oven all night!) But finally morning comes and you start the process all over again.
But at long last you reach the last lodges in Gorak shep and the final gateway to Everest Base camp. When we reached Gorak Shep, it had been snowing the whole day before. And continued to do so for the next 2 days. Visibility was low and the cold was everywhere. We sat at high altitude waiting for the weather to clear. But the only time it did was late at night on the second night where you could see the silhouettes in the dark for a small cold moment. But other then that they were all hidden from us in the clouds, the cold, and the snow. Day 2 we had to make a move. So we decided to make the 6 hour hike to EBC ( Everest Base Camp) and back. In such high altitude your time is limited as we would soon find out. We had heard horror stories the whole way up of high altitude sickness from first hand accounts and witnesses. So time was not on our side. But all the same Michelle, I, Lilly, Ohead. And our guide Ba-boo set out into the cold for EBC.
The hike was rough and probably the most arid region and terrain I have ever hiked through. We hiked out of Gorak Shep onto the glacial moraine rim. We hiked along the upper rim for a few miles with the Khumbu glacier below us. Nothing is there to protect you from the winds. And it hammers you constantly. For three hours we hiked into the winds and listened as Avalanches thundered down in hidden valleys all around us. Finally you descend down onto the glacier itself. A strange world of constant change and movement. When your almost to EBC you hike past a crashed Russian Helicopter. It ended up in the glacier back in the nineties in a failed rescue attempt. It’s one of three crashed helicopters you see on your hike to EBC. The other to Are back in Namche Bazaar. Not to mention the hundreds of fallen climber and sherpa memorials that dot the hill sides and the mountains. The closer you get to the mountains the more numerous they are. They are tall stone alters with plaques or carved stones. All of them are topped with Tibetan prayer flags and incense sticks. They are quiet, sad, and beautiful.
You know you are finally at Everest base camp because one of these larger memorials stands in front of the Khumbu Ice fall. Where the glacier is literally a wall of ice that lifts vertically off the valley floor and disappears up into the mountains and the clouds. The khumbu Ice fall is something to see in itself. It is massive in size and height. The ice fall is also the beginning of the Everest ascent. A daunting task and it comes on the first day.
When we arrived at Everest base camp the last 2 expeditions were packing out on yaks and sherpas. Both were successful we heard later. A Canadian and American team and a Korean as well. Everest base camp isn’t anything like you think it might be. It sits on a glacier so it is a few half constructed stone buildings, some memorials, offerings, trails, and a hodge-podge of assorted places to put your tent. But you are in a ampi-theatre of giants. Mountains that pierce the skies above.
10 years I had thought about this trip. Planning it and dreaming of it. And Nepal and Tibet had been at the core of it. That being trekking through the Himalayas, seeing these mountains and the cultures that resided within them. The people, the religion, the wisdom. When I was a kid I always thought that this is where ninjas came from. Well I saw plenty of yaks and sherpas and even a few monks. But no ninjas and no yetis to be seen. At least not yet I’ll have to look a little better on the next trek. But any way, when you think of Nepal and the Himalayas, you essentially think of mount Everest. The tallest mountain in the world and as the years passed. Everest became a symbol of achievement for me and a symbol of this trip.
Finally I stood at the foot of it all in the howling winds. I couldn’t see the beast but I felt great to be there. I shot a few photos. But wished I could leave something to commemorate the day, the dreams, the prayers, the hopes, the hard work, the achievment, and that very moment in time. For a moment I thought about how I wished I had brought some Tibetan prayer flags as I stared at the memorial. But that felt to gimmicky. It didn’t feel real to me. At that moment I reached into my pocket for a tube of Chapstick but instead found “The Pebble”.
A flat rock I had found 10 years ago on the shores of lake Superior while camping with my friend Zach. The very first trip I had ever taken away from home. The first step I had ever taken into a bigger world of hiking, camping, and traveling. I had carried that rock for 10 years on every travel I had ever gone to. Through my ranger work in New Mexico, To time living on the Pacific in Hawaii, through 4 months in South America and a month trekking through Patagonia, it came along for 6 weeks through central America, and return trips to Costa Rica and Tulum Mexico, The pebble went to a dozen more trips to the north shore, Multiple trips to the Rockies and the continental divide, to the east coast, the west coast, the Canadian-Rockies, It walked with me for months up on the farm in Isanti Minnesota, A day at the museum, to friends houses, weddings and funerals, Gallery openings, times of happiness and joy and times of hardship, sadness, and stress. Everywhere and anywhere I went five times out of ten the rock or “Pebble” came with.
It was a part of me. You probably saw me flipping it through my fingers back and fourth like a coin or rubbing its smooth sides like a worry stone. It was like a journal of the last ten years of my life but in thought.
I always wondered what would become of the pebble. At home it reminded me of the world beyond and the promises I had made to myself. Abroad it always reminded me of home and where I came from, of family and friends. It was always a good reminder where ever and when ever. I always wondered what the future of the pebble would be. It always seemed like something I would give to a son or daughter. Something that was personal and that I had brought around the world with me to many far and distant places. Something that had been on me in times of joy and hardship. Something that was very personal even if was just a average rock.
I love skipping rocks. Something I do often around water. At least as much as I can. So I also often wondered if I threw it back to lake superior or into some foreign ocean would it skip well. It would be a lot of pressure to get it right. Because it was a great skipping rock and that is the one you would not want to mess up. The one skip that counted above all others. But I also feared loosing that rock, that pebble, that trusted friend. Like a wallet, keys, or phone. I checked to make sure it was always there. And I feared giving it out. Over the years I had grown an attachment to something that had become so personal.
These same thoughts entered my mind when I felt it in my pocket at Everest Base Camp for a moment. But what I felt stronger at that moment then anything was that this is where the Pebble belonged. I had begun planning this trip almost the moment I found the rock. That very day if memory serves. And for the first time in my life I didn’t take a moment or two to think about it. I just knew it. I knew the moment for what it was and was meant to be. It was joyful, calm, and prayerful in action. I looked at the stone for one moment and threw it toward Everest as hard as I could as far as I could to the point that my arm hurt in a good sort of way by the time it left my hand. I didn’t skip but it was the perfect throw. One I was proud of the moment it left my hand. It made a spinning sound as it left and shot up through the air beyond the memorial and just over all the fluttering Tibetan prayer flags. For about five seconds me and Michelle stood and watched as the pebble flew out toward Everest and the white glacier around us. And just as soon as it was there it was gone. I stood there with a smile. Knowing fate had just happened as it was supposed to. As it was meant to be. That doesn’t happen a lot in life but when it does it is a beautiful thing. And for it to happen at that moment was an unbelievably beautiful thing. Life is great. And it felt that the journey was getting off to the right foot, All I could do was stand and smile. Soon we made the hike back. But the moment we turned to leave a peculiar thing happened. Over the course of the next 3 hours the weather began to clear off.
Everest is usually only seen in the morning before clouds over take the summit for the rest of the day. People had been hiking up to the kalapatar summit for a view of Everest the last few days in the snowing clouds. A four hour hike for nothing to see but clouds in front of your own face. By the time we got back to Gorak Shep there was only a thin veil of clouds that were covering the mountains. But we needed to eat, re-hydrate, and warm ourselves by the stove. By the time that was all done, it was nearing an hour till sunset. We were leaving early the next morning to return to civilization. So viewing Everest the next day was out of the question. There was only this on shot left. I sat the entire time eating staring out at the disappearing clouds with two Canadian guys my age from Montreal. At the last moment we decided to make a run for the summit of Kalapatar at 18, 192 ft. It would be a 1300 ft. Ascent at high altitude and a small window of opportunity left. Grabbing gloves, hat, headlamp, and a small bag with my camera, water, and a few essentials. I told Michelle I would be back sometime after dark and made a run for the door.
As soon as I walked out I had to squint my eyes at the blue skies above. We ran up Kalapatar with every feeble breath we had in us. Our hearts feeling as if they were going to burst from our chests. What is supposed to be a two hour hike up, we did in one. Racing the setting sun to the summit. Looking up dizzy and out of breath I couldn’t believe it. They’re wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Like young kids we clawed our way up through the rocks and snow in a fury of excitement, joy, and adrenaline. And wouldn’t you know it. That we got to the top only to find ourselves alone and in time. The top of Kalapatar peak is literally only big enough for 3 guys and that’s it. It is a sheer thousand vertical feet of cliff face on 3 sides and you have to pull yourself up with the help of Tibetan prayer flags to get up the last twenty feet of the actual summit. Which is coincidentally only big enough for 3 guys.
We stood like kings on top of the world. Smiling, laughing, screaming at the beauty and greatness of the moment. All of the Himalayas stood out before us at the moment of sunset. A moment I will never forget. Hugging two guys I hardly knew that felt like brothers to me. As we stood and watched Everest being bathed in what felt like the last light in Heaven and Earth. One more miracle happened. We sat with the hair raising on the backs of our necks and silent watching as the last light was fading on Everest and a full moon was rising right off the face of it. Perhaps the most memorable sunset and full moon rising of my life. It was a night unlike any other. It was godliness and we screamed it out to the heavens above. There is magic in the world and I saw it that day and night on the highest peaks. At the roof of the world. At the feet of fate and the hands of hope. At the heights of my dreams. Prayers were seen and answered. And I knew it and that felt just as good as seeing it all happen. Like many days but unlike any other. It was a great day to be alive. Thank God.