Teachings from a Hill Part 2

August 8, 2013

Note: The Internet is Leh is very unreliable. I'm in a rush to post this, as I'm heading to the even more isolated Spiti Valley, a 4-5 ride from Leh. I havenèt had time to proof read this one last time, and I expect there will be errors. 

When morning sunlight rapidly transformed my from tent from ice-box to sweat-box, I crawled outside as said good morning to Base Camp, at Stok Kangri. It had been a sleepless night; my body was achy, and I was gasping for breath in the thin atmosphere. I figured I’d have all day to rest, acclimatize, and possibly nap before beginning the hike to the summit at midnight. Dominik, who was far more experienced with trekking and climbing than either Tarin or I, had other plans.

Over an early breakfast, he informed me that we’d soon depart on a 2 hour hike to the glacier. Once there we’d put on our crampons, and practice various maneuvers with our ice picks. I had trekked as far as the bathroom earlier in the morning, and that was challenging enough. As far as I was concerned, I had done plenty of activity for the day. I could hang out around the beautiful base camp for the next two days for all I cared.I had achieved enough.

What I love most about long climbs is watching the kinds of doubts which arise. More often than not, they are merely phantoms which quickly come and go. However, they can be completely convincing. The mind constructs very convincing stories about the situation, and then tells the owner what he really wants to do – which generally does not include the pointless labor of climbing a mountain.However, the story can either be believed the truth, or the truth can be put to the test. Usually, the safety mechanism of ‘The Doubting Story’kicks in near the summit of a climb when the climber is exhausted, and the is brain low on vital nutrients.My head was full of such stories long before the journey to the summit began, which allowed them ample time to seem increasingly real.

I protested the days hike a little, proffering the logic of my fatigue and a sleepless night. Both Dominik and Tarin disagreed, and without too much more whining I consented to join them. Tarin and I strapped on our ridiculous snow boots, and off we went to ABC – which is what those in the know call Advanced Base Camp. The rigidness of the boots provided excellent arch support, for which I was grateful. Still, their blocky design, and unnecessary weight made them cumbersome. Most people coming down from the summit usually made a passing effort to mock them, regardless how exhausted they seemed.

“What are you doing, trekking in those?” They wheezed. “Those are ridiculous.” Others added.

Had I the energy to generate emotions, I might have felt insulted or annoyed. However, the curious inability to process feelings was in full effect. I simply forced a smile, and drooled on myself as I struggled to walk by them.

We reached the glacier in just over two hours of slow-placed walking, climbing to an elevation 5400 meters. Dominik and Tarin kept me in very good spirits as none of us took anything too seriously. Both internally and externally I think I was by far the biggest curmudgeon of the group, but neither of them called me on it.Their presence and composure was my greatest source of energy, and I fed on their genuine, friendly nature. We marched around on the glacier for a while, and ran mock drills on how to stop a fall using our ice picks. It was all pretty basic, and this particular glacier, we were told, presented no real danger.

The air was as fresh as air gets. While it was dusty and arid elsewhere, tramping around on the glacier was like standing on a giant, soothing lozenge. We drank freshly melted glacial water, and Tarin attempted to start the revolution with a snowball fight – her first! Dominik coached us in the most efficient ways of not-dying, and I kept things light by playing the part of rodeo clown. I had borrowed a medium brimmed cowboy hat for the hike, and I thought it suited mewell enough. Being the only American present, I attempted to converse in my most authentic southern drawl. I made boisterous proclamations about the unparalleled greatness of ‘Merica, and told of my plans to ensure the safety of my imaginary children by including Glock-9’s, and various semi-automatics in their pack lunches. Such exaggerated stereotypes never fail to get a resounding laugh when travelling with non-American Westerners. I even have a whole routine about my insatiable love of peanut butter, which I naturally shout-talk to people, displaying my two most sincere and unrelenting signs of having grown up in an enigmatic America. 

In total we spent over an hour on the glacier itself; faffing about, telling jokes, practicing a bit, but most importantly we were acclimatizing. I was exhausted, and had a mounting headache when we decided it was time to start heading back for lunch. I took some time to look around and embrace the magic of being on my first glacier. It was a comparatively tiny glacier, which lives in a similarly small valley. It is bisected by a narrow channel of rapidly moving, ruddy water that had picked up its color from the stones above. Towards the fringe of the ice-sheet is the rubble of stones which had tumbled down the valley walls long ago. The larger stones were closer to the edge, gradually fading to tiny, broken pebbles further up the valley incline. There were occasional large boulders which look like golf-balls, teed up on thin pillars of snow which refused to melt in the shadow cast by the imposing rock above. The sun shone doubly bright on the snow, and above was a sky so saturated with blue that it looked like a freshly painted wall.

Returning to base camp walking their normal pace, my companions quickly pulled out of sight. Disconnected from their energy, doubts began to creep back in. I couldn’t shake the thought that I just wanted to be back at base camp, eating and resting. I was highly irritated that society had yet to invent teleportation. I sent projections of rage to the editors of Scientific American, and Discover magazines for making me think that such advances are just around the corner. I began composing my speech to Tarin and Dominik about how I would not be joining them at midnight to attempt a summit.

I trundled back to base camp with the speed and agility of a tortoise, fueled only by the distraction provided by two episodes of one of my favorite podcasts: This American Life. The soothing and quirky voice of Ira Glass, coupled with a half-dozen or so zany stories kept my contempt for Nature at bay. My perception shifted from thinking Nature was magical, to condemning it as maniacal. I sneered at the hot and dry desert which surrounded me, and I cursed my enfeebled body. My legs ached, my head was pounding, and my stomach felt like it was trying to digest plutonium. I couldn’t wait to waive the white flag of defeat. I had done enough. What was I even doing up there?

I made it back to camp nearly two hours after Dominik and Tarin. They had cooked lunch, and had saved me some, but I was forced to decline on account of my upset stomach. Not wanting to disappoint them with the news that I wouldn’t be joining them, I went inside the base camp’s common tent. Upsetting as it was, my mind was made up. Although I had enjoyed myself as much as possible, I was content to sit out the midnight climb to the summit. We were nine hours away from departure, and I felt more like I was coming down with the flu than prepared for a grueling trek.

I went inside and ordered some bottles of water. I unlaced my bulky boots, and found a comfortable place to collapse. The guys who ran the café, like everyone else, pointed out that snow boots were not necessary this time of year; that I should climb in my hiking boots. For the umpteenth time I was forced to reveal my incompetence. I told them that the only alternative to snow boots I had were flip-flips, and although I had managed to hike up to base camp wearing them I didn’t think they work with my crampons. They chuckled a bit, but were genuinely sympathetic to my plight. Seeking a solution, they asked what size shoe I needed. When I told them I needed a size US 11,one of the workers instantly kicked off his boots.

“Here, take these. They are US size 11.” Said Suraj, the cook, as he casually handed them to me.

To accurately portray the improbability of this event would require an award winning ‘TED Talk’ on the average size of feet in the developing world, and the rarity of shoe outlets above 5000 meters. Just yesterday I went to buy new trekking boots in the city of Leh (I’ve learned my lesson), and was told by several stores that I wouldn’t be able to find a size eleven in all of Leh; that Delhi would be my best bet.

The shoes Suraj lent me fit like a dream, and he smiled like it was no big deal. They had been donated the guys who run the café a few weeks prior, and Suraj was happy to let me borrow them for a day. My spirits were slightly renewed. If I were to try and hike to the top, it would be a whole lot easier. I hadn’t told them of my desire to quit, and they continued to help me out. For the better part of an hour, they diligently sorted through their massive pile spare crampons trying to find a pair that would fit my new boots. My optimism rose with every passing moment. My appetite returned mightily, and my headache disappeared. Clarity replaced my day-long mental fog, and I became aware of the numerous empty water bottles strewn about my feet. They were all mine. I had downed almost five liters of water of since returning to base camp.

I laughed at my growing list of oversights, and flirting with dehydration was now one of them. Mostly though, I could only think about how great I now felt. Thanks to the addition of a water, my perception of the situation changed completely. I felt more like having a laugh and climbing a 20,000 ft. mountain at midnight; less like whining about how lousy I felt, and giving up. I downed a huge lunch, and walked briskly over to Dominik and Train’s tent without becoming winded. I was all smiles, inside and out, and told them the good news about new hiking boots. I began looking forward to that nights climb, and had no doubt that I would make it.

We went to rest in our tents around 6 pm, and Dominik and Tarin said they’d wake me up around 11 pm to begin getting ready. I went to bed full of energy and urine, which does not make for a good night’s sleep, particularly when camping. I didn’t mind though. Between bathroom breaks, I lay contentedly in my tent – toasty warm thanks to an additional sleeping bag I had borrowed. For some unknown reason, my body refused to shut down and let me drift off to sleep. I listened to more pod casts, relaxed; happy to be where I was.

I watched the scheduled wake-up time come and go. I began to suspect that I had the wake-up time confused with the departure time. At fifteen minutes to midnight, I gently woke Dominik and Tarin who were fast asleep in their tent. I had the time right, but their alarm clock had run out of batteries. Fortunately, we still had plenty of time. We had packed all the necessities earlier in the afternoon, and even had time to boil a liter of water to make a strong batch of green tea, which we poured into a thermos.

We departed for the summit at 12:15am, and initially marched between two tour groups consisting of a half dozen or so climbers. The night air was crisp, and the wind was as still as the night. The first two hours were easy; a clearly defined trail up to the glacier which we had horsed around on during the afternoon. At the glacier we put on our crampons, and marched across a crunchy glacier. The stream which marked the mid-way point across the glacier had slowed to a trickle. The banks of ice on the miniature valley which the river had carved during the daytime glowed a frosty blue under the illumination of a quarter moon.

After crossing the glacier the real climbing began, and we managed to stop chatting. I don’t recall what we had been so keen to talk about from midnight until two in the morning, climbing a mountain, and crossing a glacier. Knowing us, I would guess that philosophy and plausible answers to the meaning of life came up. However, we were also prone to talk about food all the time, and it’s not unlike me to discuss my bowel movements when the opportunity presents itself. Regardless, when the climbing got serious, we were able to shut up and enjoy the silence.

We zigzagged up a long, icy incline, and I reveled in the simplicity of the process. My mind became quiet, hollow, rhythmic. In a delicate way, nothing seemed to matter. I don’t recall any exhaustion, shortness of breath, or negative thoughts to grapple with. I’m sure such thoughts did come, but they didn’t leave any traces. Towards the eastern horizon, the sky was unzipping. A distant mountain range come into focus; a ragged dividing line between Earth and the Heavens. Color bled upwards out of the Earth, and gradually devoured stars and what had once been night sky. Eventually the Sun triumphed, and night was officially obliterated. All climbers simultaneously came to a stop, momentarily awestruck; then giddy – everyone looked around to see who else was smiling. For a few minutes only, we were all bathed in electric tangerine light. When it had passed, everyone resumed their own personal march.

Dominik was ahead of us for most of the climb. He would scurry ahead, check the route, and then wait for Tarin and I to catch up, cloaked in a crazy space-blanket he’d brought with him which, despite being as thin as aluminum foil, apparently retain 90% of body heat. That was our basic routine all the way to the top. Much to my surprise, the hike was quite easy. We weren’t the first people to make the summit, but we all seemed to enjoy every bit of the process. Tarin and I made a final push and arrived at an empty summit save one wacky German expedition leader: Dominik. He’d been up there by himself for 30 minutes or so before we arrived, and was seated peacefully looking out at all the world.When we joined him the celebrations began. We had each gotten ourselves up 6140 meters/ 20,144 feet/ 3.8 miles above sea-level; and the weather was spectacular. There was not a cloud in the sky. The wind amounted to little more than a light breeze. A blanket of mountain ranges extended all the way to the horizon. On a clear day K2, the world’s second highest mountain, is visible from the summit of Stok Kangri. Unfortunately, none of us knew this at the time. Nevertheless, we’ve all apparently laid our gaze on the whole of K2, and it was stunning! We spent almost an hour taking pictures, chatting with other climbers, and enjoying the views. After that, it was as they say: all downhill from there.

We began our decline with some great views, but they gradually became less and less stunning. The apex had come and gone; the climax had already been reached. There was no higher goal to set our sights on. We could only look back on where we had been, and remember how good we had it.

Due to my knees, I descend like a grandpa. Once we reached a safe place, Dominik went at his own pace – which is about as fast as I can run. Tarin kept me company for another couple of hours. Once we reached Advanced Base Camp, Tarin took off, and it was me and Ira Glass once again for final two hour stretch to Plain Ol’ Base Camp. Though I was not the last person to summit, I was the last person to make it back to camp by a wide margin. I didn’t mind at all. I’d had a great day. I wasn’t even tired, and my mood was still up.

I think my primary lesson from day one was obvious: plan first; then be ready to go with the flow. The lesson of the follow days had more to do with perception vs. reality; doubts vs. actual capacity. These kinds of battles against the self are common to climbing. Doubts enter the mind, and the climber has to continually persevere; to overcome himself in order to reach the top. I’ve had these sorts of mental battles on climbs before, but this time all my doubts and struggles had come and gone before the climb even began. After I had hydrated properly, all was smooth sailing, and I’m sure there’s a lesson there, too. Mostly, I remembered how much I love to go for walks in nature, and climb somewhat large mountains if I can. Each trek I’ve done has been a living metaphor; I highly recommend them. Confidence and elation soar once the top is reached. The subconscious is well aware that you can go no higher. More than anything I learned the value of surrounding myself with positive people. Dominik and Tarin, whether they know it or not, are wholly responsible for getting me up that mountain. I didn’t have the confidence to set out on my own like I wanted to. If I had, I’m 100% sure I would have called it quits at base camp. Subtly and persistently they pulled me along, and for that I am grateful.

Teachings From a Hill Part 1.

August 3rd, 2013

To be sure, this was no ordinary hill. In fact, most would be correct to call it mountain. Even the clouds must make an effort scrape across the summit, which towers 6140M (over 20,000 ft.) above sea-level. But, what can be learned in attempting to climb such a beast?

As I mentioned in my last post, I recently reconnected with the deep sense of peace and wholeness that comes from an uncommonly simple existence. For weeks on end, I was content to pass the days reading, writing, thinking, and meditating. I could have done anything, but these are activities which I enjoy, and they all fit quite easily into a routine of simplicity. It took nearly a week of this regimen for the benefits to emerge. Gradually, my concerns eroded. What had I been so worried about? Life? It seemed that life was all too easy if I was able to just let it be.

Time passed me by, yet I felt awake in every moment; a passenger on the train of my minds observations. My emotions were light and carefree as thoughts slid across the window of my awareness: “You’re not on the right track to success.” Maybe, but what does that even mean? “Have you noticed those grey hairs sprouting at your temples?” Yep. But, who cares? Life is just the scenery that comes rolling by, and today I’ve an excellent view of my nascent grey hairs. Fantastic.

It’s hard not to get caught up thought; the abstract fashions of the day by which we measure our lives. Stay forever young. Become successful in this way. Befriend these people. But where does the raw material from which we painstakingly construct our ideal lives come from anyhow? From where do we get the ideas of who and what to be? Are those ideas essential to living freely and ethically?

Inside of a few weeks isolation and reflection, I was able to escape all such senseless fantasy making. From time to time I was wholly occupied with whatever it was I was doing. Contentment issued from even the most basic activities – brushing my teeth for example. My mind came to a halt contemplating the temporality of my existence. I realized that, through an incomprehensible turn of events, I am 13.7 billion years in the making. That seems like a lot. I was awestruck at how anxious and concerned I am over the 100 or so years which will hopefully comprise my life.

I also had time to reflect on the last decade of my life – the real meat of my independent existence in the current world. I had basically lived a fairy-tale; one which I could have written for myself, too! However, it wasn’t enough. I always found myself back at the origin, authoring  a new and increasingly outrageous story of becoming something more.

Checking that endless task at the door was a relief. The present moment was more than enough. It’s the only dimension where gratitude can be felt or expressed, and I realized just how much I have to be grateful for. Sure, I felt as if I lost a few moments – or even whole days – to sloth and ennui, but that only meant that I wasn’t paying enough attention. Experience is fractal. The subtler the mind, the greater the magnification of experience. When the depths of boredom and nothingness are probed, one finds a whole universe of experience to be enjoyed. A birds song, a whispering stream, even the hum of distant traffic is replete with the essence of life.

I was content to continue my simplistic existence until a pair of enthusiastic travelers came bounding in to my awareness. As I made my way down the stairs of my guest house, I turned to see a grubby and exuberant pair moving in next door. They broadcast pure joy.

“That was amaaaaaaaaaayzing!” Said a female voice.

“So awesome. So awesome.” Replied a perfunctory, but no less enthused, male.

“Gosh, I’m glad to be back, but I just want to do it again!” Said the woman.

“Me too. Me too.” Agreed the man.

Pots and pans hung from their tattered backpacks, as did sleeping bags and rolled up insulation mats. I deduced that they had just returned from a trek, and tested my hypotheses with the kind of intelligent query we are all too familiar with.

“Just got back from a trek, huh?” I awkwardly interjected.

They turned and, without reflecting on whether or not I was a clairvoyant, confirmed that they had indeed just returned from a wonderful 9-day trek. During the previous two weeks I had hardly uttered more than a hundred words for the purpose of socialization, and was glad when they promptly introduced themselves and invited me to dinner, provided I gave them time to shower first.

Tarin, the Australian woman, and Dominik, the German male, were both excellent travelers. Dominik had spent the better part of the previous two years travelling. He had done a long stint volunteering in Ecuador, and was now closing in on 8 months in India. Tarin was mid-way through a yearlong trip in India and its bordering countries. They had done their recent trek independently, which intrigued me. I have most of the equipment to do a trek, but my biggest obstacle to setting out on my own is, ultimately, simple trust in myself (which includes trusting my ability to fail, and then try again).

Over dinner they gave me some good tips, and more importantly they gave me confidence that I could figure it out as I went. Dominik lent me a detailed guidebook of local treks, and I saw a few I liked. I finally felt like I could manage it, but I was also completely content with my routine. I didn’t feel compelled to do anything. The longer the trip, the less urgent travel seems. Eventually, I decided that trekking could wait. I was happy with what was.

After a day’s rest in Leh, Tarin and Dominik decided to rent motorbikes and head to one of the surrounding salt-lakes for a few days. Upon returning, they planned to do a three day trek up Stok Kangri, a 6140 meter peak visible from my bedroom window, and wanted to know if I wanted to join. I made basic inquiries about cost, required skill, safety, etc. The plan was to go without a guide, as Dominik had done lots of trekking and some mountaineering – including ice climbs. We collectively shrugged our shoulders and decided: why not?

Despite what seemed like an eternally complacent mood, I was also willing to accept a change of pace. I mulled over the few reservations I still had. My primary concern was my knees; mine aren’t the greatest. There have been times when a one hour semi-strenuous walk has diminished me to hobbling for a day or two. However, I have completed a few treks in my day by going slowly and cautiously. I’ve managed to hold off knee problems until the final moments; usually the descent.    

Although Stok Kangri is labeled a trek, depending on the season there are sections where crampons (like a slipper made of metal spikes, which attaches to the bottom of either snow or hiking boots), ice-axe’s, and minor technical skills are required. Dominik – rechristened “Expedition Leader” – was unfazed. He said he’d explain how to use all that when he and Tarin returned from the lakes. Good enough for me!

A few days later they came knocking on my door in the late afternoon. Despite the tardy arrival, we decided to push for departure the following day. We rushed to get our permits in order, and then went to rent the necessary equipment. The shop owner seemed visibly astonished by how little we knew about Stok Kangri. Indeed, I hadn’t taken the time to research the route myself, even though I had planned to do exactly that while Dominik and Tarin we gone. However, from what I had heard, I figured Stok Kangri would be easy enough. 

“No. Definitely not easy. It can be very difficult. But, just keep walking, and you’ll get there.” Quipped the shop owner. Good enough for me!

Tarin and I were outfitted with snow boots which were slightly more comfortable than bricks with laces, and just about as heavy. We each took a pair of crampons, an ice ax, a pair of gloves, and an additional jacket. After renting the equipment we made a dash for the grocery store, and made it just before closing time. We grabbed random snacks, and food to cook as quickly as possible.

The next morning we attempted an early start, but all was slow going. We took a taxi to the town of Stok, and got to the trailhead around 10 am. The destination for the night was Base Camp, a 9 hour hike ascending 1000 meters to a final elevation of 4900 meters. By design, I had only my flip flops and snow boots as footwear to choose from. My plan was to wear the snow boots the whole way up so as to avoid carrying the 5Kg. (10.4lb) clunkers in my backpack. A local man broke down in hysterics when he saw me lacing up. I took the hint, and decided to wear flip flops for the first day.

Departing for base camp we looked like the hobo equivalent of a professional expedition team. I was sporting flip-flops, board shorts, two tan-colored knee braces, and a wheeled backpack stuffed with such essentials as a laptop, a bulky iPhone speaker, and of course my beloved Kindle, for pleasure reading in a low oxygen environment. Tied to the exterior of my backpack were the two large and unwieldy snow boots. They swung like a pendulum, throwing me off balance and kicking me in the ass whenever we came to a stop.  

Tarin displayed a solid black-eye she received a few days prior when her motorcycle helmet made an acquaintance with the tarmac at low speed. As I would soon find out, Tarin has an unsinkable personality. With gashes in her palms, a swelling cheek, and a picture-perfect black eye, she only found cause to smile and laugh – a typical Aussie trait, which Tarin has in spades.

Out fearless yet humble Expedition Leader, Dominik Ze German, was youthful, long haired, and a hippy at heart. He had forgotten to buy a much needed shoelace earlier in the morning, and in his first display of resourcefulness pilfered a garbage for plastic twine to use as a substitute. Dominik was kind enough to lend me the didgeridoo he made in Sri Lanka to use as walking stick, and our quixotic triumvirate set off for the base camp.

We got more than a few stares coming up the mountain. I think my flip-flop, double knee brace, didgeridoo walking stick ensemble raised the most eyebrows. Most people were trekking in organized groups, either ascending or descending with light day-packs, synthetic threads, and alloyed walking sticks which couldn’t carry a tune if they wanted to. As the hired horses which carted their heavy items trotted by, they would often ask where our guide was. Tarin and I simply pointed to Dominik – our Man de la Munich – who looked more prepared to attend a German-Electro-Woodstock than summit a 6100+ meter mountain.

I clearly represented a sad and pathetic future Sancho Panza. Where pots and pans once clanged, I had installed an ass tenderizing metronome of brick-like boots. I’m not sure where Tarin fits in the tale, but suffice it to say that Dominik and I were accompanied by what appeared to a surprisingly cheery, accident prone woman, who was likely marching to her death given the clowns she was following.

A few things now strike me as odd about this situation. First, that all of this is true. Second, that none of this worried me at the time. Third, the complete ABSENCE of drugs and alcohol. Ladakh is a sober state and we kept it that way.

Despite all of this – or more likely because of the delightful absurdity – the first days hike was long, inefficient, whimsical, and full of laughter. We climbed through a beautiful red-walled valley, fording the same modest river as the trail shifted throughout the day. There were yaks to keep us company when other climbers were absent. Mostly, we occupied ourselves vying for the title of Most Talkative Climbers. We mused about philosophy, travel, physics and spirituality, life in our respective countries, the future of humanity, and so on.      

We stopped to cook lunch, and took copious breaks to inhale chocolate bars, refill water, and take in the scenery. We arrived at base camp just before sun-down, although towards the end of the day Dominik raced ahead, and probably beat us there by a solid hour. I arrived exhausted but not dispirited. The arches of my feet were on fire, and I recalled something called plantar fasciitis, a debilitating condition which I nearly gave myself many years prior during another unplanned and dramatic increase in activity which also strained the arches of my feet.  

Dominik helped me set up my tent, and then we all gathered inside the semi-permanent Café tent which serves simple meals, tea, and other basic necessities to the needy at base camp. We got warm and cozy, and downed plate after plate of rice while discussing the mountain with a half-dozen or so other travelers. Some had just come up the mountain; some had made the summit earlier that morning. The question of whether or not we needed a guide still loomed, and we were given conflicting answers. We had 24 more hours to acclimatize, so a definitive answer could wait. For me, the question of whether or not we needed a guide was putting the cart before the horse. The altitude was getting to me, and my the pain in my feet was mounting. All I could think of was getting a good night’s sleep.    

When we departed Leh earlier that morning, I was ambivalent to making it to the summit. I was taking things as they came. If I made the summit, great. If not, also great. Given my finicky knees, I was even prepared to turn back within the first hour should I have needed to. I think the overwhelming lesson of day-1 was the importance of finding a middle ground between meticulous over-preparation, and whatever the hell we did. Sure, we preserved an “in-the-moment” feel, but it would have been nice to have shoes. I was ready and willing to accept any and all consequences for my decisions with grace and equanimity, but that shouldn’t have stopped me from doing a few hours – or even five minutes – research on the peak I was attempting to climb.

Other lessons of the day included new insights into the importance of putting sunscreen on the tops of pasty white feet, especially when wearing flip-flops and hiking for hours on end in a place where the O-Zone layer is a stone’s throw away, and thinning fast. Also, I learned that arch support is critical if you haven’t done any significant physical activity for a while, and suddenly decide to walk for 9 hours shouldering a bag packed suitably for Hercules.

My final lessons of the day came as I went to hunker down in my brand-new tent. I imagine there exists some sort of conventional wisdom about testing your equipment before you use it. However, I had the pleasure of discerning that sage advice all on my own. Unbeknownst to me, I do not own what is commonly referred to as a “4-season” tent. I’m still not sure what conditions my tent is designed for, but what I do know is that camping near the snow-line of a high altitude mountain clearly exceeds its capacity, even during the summer months.

At the narrow end of my tubular tent is a square, mesh window which does not close. At the other end is a thin vent near the top, which also does not close. I hadn’t noticed these features initially, but as night closed in I noticed a distinct breeze – the kind you might expect inside the tunnels of Boeing's Jet Propulsion Laboratory. Artic wind howled though my tent. As I stared wide-eyed at the rapidly flapping ceiling, with my entire face chapping all at once, I began to wonder how bearable the situation might be if I hadn’t made one more critical oversight.

I made a snafu not all that dissimilar from the geniuses who crashed a $400M space-probe into the surface of Mars because someone forgot to convert Imperial units to their metric equivalent. I have purchased sleeping bags in the past, and I know that a “Zero Degree” bag is heavy duty. However, I had not stopped to consider why the “Zero Degree” sleeping bag I purchased in India was so thin and light. Perhaps the eggheads NASA fired had created some new and unfathomable insulating material. I didn’t think to ask.

The answer came to me in a blisteringly cold flash of insight. “Zero Degree” in most of the world refers to Celsius, a measure of temperature which bases its ‘0’ point on the freezing temperature of pure water. “Zero Degree” where I come from – the land where I had purchased all of my previous sleeping bags – refers to Fahrenheit, a measure of temperature that bases its ‘0’ point on the freezing temperature of salt-water. “Oh yeah…” I thought to myself. “So that’s why it feels like I’m dying.”

Proud to have remembered this factoid, I promptly turned over and started doing pushups in order to generate some body heat, and keep Death at bay. I spent the night tossing and turning, occasionally doing leg raisers, or additional pushups when I wanted to feel warm. Needless to say, I didn’t sleep a wink. My head began to hurt from the altitude, and I encountered a few bouts of nausea. As I lay in the fetal position, gasping for what few oxygen molecules there are at 4900M, a smile never left my face. When daybreak finally came, all I could think was “Good God, I love travel!”