Ghandruk trek Nepal: in which a family searches for the Annapurna Range and discovers something else. Part 1.

Namaste from Kathmandu, Nepal. Boudhanath.

It didn't start well. Alistair, deathly white and drenched with sweat, was on the verge of fainting.

The stifling plane showed no signs of departing the Kathmandu airstrip for Pokhara - why waste air conditioning on sitting on the tarmac, even if it were one of the city's hottest days? Alistair had been afflicted with the dreaded "Kathmandu quickstep" the day before – an experience he'd rather forget – and the airless wait threatened to overcome him. The crackle of an accented announcement sent us back across the blazing tarmac to the terminal to wait for the weather to improve in Pokhara. Alistair staggered along and slumped across the row of seats. A concerned ama took his shoes off; another produced damp towels and proceeded to wipe down his face and limbs. Lhapka, our Sherpa assistant, fanned him furiously with a discarded newspaper. Three airport officials turned up to see what the fuss was about.

The roots of this adventure were decades deep. I had trekked for a month in Nepal more than 20 years ago, a transformational experience that shaped my worldview and ushered in true adulthood, had yearned to return. But life got in the way as it does – babies, mortgage, job – the usual anchors. When Tenaya, my older daughter, arranged to do a service project for her Girl Scout Gold award at a Women's Center in Kathmandu, there was no question of not accompanying her. In fact, why not bring the entire family and extend the trip to include a week of exploring? Could a trek also be transformative for the entire family, one of those much vaunted "bonding experiences" the subject of many a sappy Disney movie? I had my doubts. The teen years had been fraught with conflict, as they often are. Upbeat Facebook posts failed to convey the reality, as they often do, of the tenuous bridge between teen and parent.  Furthermore, my daughters were reluctant to walk anywhere, let alone up and down mountains for days, possibly in monsoon rains. A bribe would be required.  I hoped a couple of nights of luxury in the resort town of Pokhara ("spa" was bandied about casually) followed by two days of white-water rafting would suffice to buy forgiveness, if not earn bonding.

With Alistair revived, our party eventually boarded the aircraft (stopping to allow other passengers to take the necessary pre-flight selfies) which took off for a cloudy flight to Pokhara. With us was our guide, Ang Gelu, and his assistant, Lhakpa. Ang Gelu came from Pangkoma, a small village in the Solu Khumbu that I had visited on my first trip. On that trek, Lhakpa's father, Ngima Dorje had been our sirdar, and my brother and I had been accompanying my parents.  Now Lhakpa was leading, and my daughters were accompanying Alistair and I, the trek organised by Ngima's company, Nepal Myths and Mountain Trails.

Lhakpa (centre left) and Ang Gelu (centre right) flanked by our two porters

In Pokhara, a couple of young Sherpa boys were waiting to be our porters and our party of 8 boarded a van which bumped its way up the collection of potholes loosely linked by the occasional pavement that passed as the road, swerving to avoid cows, swarms of motorcyclists, and oncoming brightly painted trucks on the wrong side of the road, with a liberal use of the horn. In other words, a perfectly normal Nepali drive.

We abruptly stopped at a seemingly random spot up a valley on the side of the dirt road.  Steep lush hillsides rose up into the clouds. There was an inauspicious, ratty looking 'restaurant' and not much else....apart from a set of stone steps disappearing up into the jungle. This was apparently Phedi, the trailhead location. The girls peered up the stairs with a mixture of suspicion and dread. They were about to learn the meaning of 'Nepali up'! And so began the trek proper under misty skies.

Looking down on the road and Phedi

Our first taste of Nepali up.

It was an odd parade.  The two teen porters bounded away out front laden with bags carried on a tumpline on their heads, eager to reach the next rest stop to check their phones. The two teen clients trudged upwards, one silently and the other voicing her displeasure at the directness of the ascent. Ang Gelu led the main group, pacing along stoically, an Everest climbing sherpa massively overqualified for this small venture. Keeping up with him was Alistair who seemed revived by the challenge. I followed along in between and Lhapka brought up the rear, being assigned the job of tail-end Charlie.

The telltale signs of a leech bite - bloody socks

The mist turned to a light, cooling and not entirely unwelcome drizzle. As we paused for a rest at the top of the steepest ascent, Lhakpa casually mentioned that we should look out for leeches, but not to worry as they were usually higher up. Leeches??? The girls now looked alarmed as well as hot and tired. Finally nearing the crest of the ridge, we sat to rest again out of the now light rain. Lhakpa suggested that we check our ankles for the little bloodsuckers. I glanced down, saw a large black blob on my ankle, and picked it off with a shriek. Blood trickled down into my sock. The rest of the family gasped, then a commotion erupted as everyone discovered they'd been bitten. Shoes were discarded in a hurry to discover the tell-tale bloody patches on socks. The bites were painless and caused no itchy welt; the only inconvenience was the effect of the powerful anti-coagulant which ensured a steady trickle of blood for an extended time (our socks ran red for ages when we tried to rinse them off in the evening). But it was the very thought of the little bastards that was repulsive.

It was the last straw for Tenaya. She had just finished her final grueling year at high school and graduated just days before departing for Nepal with little chance for a break. En route via Singapore she has picked up a nasty virus and had had a feverish traumatic arrival into Kathmandu with blocked ears and the aircraft in an extended holding pattern before landing. Her week in a homestay in a developing (read: non-touristy) suburb of Kathmandu as part of her Girl Scout project was challenging: jetlag, strange meals at strange hours, record Kathmandu heat, traditional beds, the clamour of the neighbourhood still under construction, a continuously griping digestive system, and  an unsettling feeling of uncertainty about daily plans which were apt to change at the last minute. Our hosts offered us their finest warm hospitality and did their utmost to graciously accommodate the family. It was just a huge change for a California teen used to a structured, predictable and sanitised Western life. By the end of the week, we had decided our song of the trip was "100 Bad Days Make 100 Good Stories (100 Good Stories Make You Interesting at Parties" by AJR. Our favourite saying was "There has been a little bit change of plan". And the t-shirt of the trip was "Dal Bhat power, 24 hour" in honour of the traditional twice daily Nepali meal of white rice, dal (lentil soup) and veggies. We all could laugh about those later...but at that moment in the trail, enough was enough. Tears flowed amid panicked sobs. It started to rain harder.

View from our homestay in a developing suburb of Kathmandu

Homestay bed

  

Dal bhat power, 24 hour

Along the ridgetop, the way became less steep as we wound through villages and terraces being ploughed by water buffalo and planted with rice.

We stopped for lunch at a teahouse with views of the hills swirling in and out of the clouds. Warm food and the resident cat provided physical and mental sustenance before the walk continued ever upwards. 

Mid-afternoon, a sign saying "Pothana- 25 min" perked us up as this was our destination for the evening. Alas, this must have been for the locals, as we climbed through forest for the best part of an hour before reaching the village perched on the ridge. 

Amazing - some downhill! Accompanied by one of our canine companions

There must be mountains somewhere in the clouds,,,

In April, peak trekking season, this would have been a busy hub with expansive views of the Annapurna Range. In late June, we were the only customers in town, damp and bedraggled, and had to content ourselves with a faded poster of the glorious panorama as the rain beat its ever harder rhythm on the tin roof.

Arriving in Pothana

We had to imagine this!

Our accommodation was in a pair of basic rooms on the top floor with two simple bed platforms apiece furnished with a foam mattress and heavy duvet blanket, and a bald electric light. The loo was down the end of the building and was a sit-down flush variety. The plain wooden floor did little to muffle the sounds of the sherpas and the inevitable lodge dog below. I was rapt - this far exceeded expectations based on my experience 20 years prior! Down in the dining hall, one of our porters had found an outlet to charge his phone in and was busy watching a movie. The lodge had Wifi, but only when it wasn't raining, so we were out of luck - or perhaps in luck. Throughout the trek, I had difficulty reconciling my desire to recreate my previous trek experience - the month in which we left roads behind and in which the only communication with the outside world was a two-minute phone call to Alistair from the single phone in the region - with the current reality. Like in the west, phones and wifi were ubiquitous and just as addictive. The ultimate for me was the sight of some girls tending their herd of goats on the side of a steep trail...glued to their screens. 

Spot the phones...and the goats!

Roads now snaked into these villages, bulldozed out of the hillsides, perched precariously on the steep slopes and at constant risk of washouts and landslides. 

I struggled to find the charm in this connected world at the same time as recognising the progress that these links represented to the local people.

Dining hall at Pothana

That evening after dinner, we lingered in the dining hall chatting to Ang Gelu and Lhakpa. Ang Ghelu had worked on Everest as a climbing sherpa for a number of years, working his way up the ranks. In 2015, he was caught in the massive earthquake-triggered landslide that swept through Everest base camp, killing at least 22 people. He survived but spent 3 months in hospital with an injured back. Since then, he had returned and summited twice. I asked him what his motivation for returning after a near-death experience was - was it just the money, or did he love what he did? Both, it seemed. Despite the extraordinarily high risks and poor treatment - he bemoaned the terrible food provided to the sherpas - these kept him coming back each year. Lhakpa described how seeing the bodies of 14 Sherpas killed on the mountain had him retching, and the huge impact that the loss of these climbers had on their close-knit communities - wives left without husbands, children without fathers. It was a sobering and thought-provoking discussion. Should these levels of risk imposed on the sherpa staff be unacceptable to visiting mountaineers? At what price the summit? How much responsibility lay with the Nepalese government for failing to set limits on the numbers of climbers and therefore creating even more hazardous conditions? Permits provided significant income to a country hugely dependent on tourism. Like for many things in Nepal, there were no easy answers.

Teetering on the brink: A journey along Mammoth Crest

I rounded a corner. The earth dropped away in sudden dizzying juxtaposition. In the words of Hec from "The Wilderpeople", it was 'majestical'. I dropped the pack and scampered out along a fin of rock jutting out from the escarpment. Maximum exposure, maximum delight. “Mind if I play my summit music?”. My new companion pulled out his phone.

We were kindred spirits in that moment, companions of the trail. When we parted ways shortly after, no names had been exchanged, yet we had been bonded by that fleeting hour spent dancing along the edge, flirting with the void, answering the siren song that called from over, below, tugging at us to venture closer, to lean out further. We had shared heaven.

The summer had not been one of my most adventurous. Years of climbing up and down mountains and assorted other abuses had finally caught up with me in the form of protesting knees. Accordingly, it had been a season of less ambitious outings - a family float trip down the Lower Owens River on a Walmart raft and couple of inflatable rings (another tale to tell), some easy climbing including our first ‘family’ multi-pitch in Tuolumne Meadows, a glorious amble in the high alpine of Little Lakes Valley with my father in peak wildflower season.  Enjoyable, memorable even, but never quite satisfying that lurking, deeper hunger. By September, I craved a stronger dose of backcountry magic, knees be damned. I scoured the maps, and settled on a jaunt along the Mammoth Crest, returning by the uber-popular Duck Pass Trail.

This long escarpment forms the southwestern rim of the Mammoth Lakes Basin in California’s Eastern Sierra. From the lakes below, it is an arresting feature that draws the gaze. What would it be like to be on top looking down? The hike could be completed in a day by an eager hiker, but, given the current creaky pins, I decided to spread the walk over two days to enjoy the opportunity.

The Mammoth Crest from Emerald Lake in hte Lakes Basin

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8:45 am. I shoulder my pack, open the front door and head off down the street to catch the 9am bus. This is the beauty of our new mountain home - almost instant accessibility to a vast alpine playground. I catch the jaunty-looking (and free!) Lakes Basin Trolley the few miles up to the trailhead. Tomorrow is the last day the shuttle will run; the driver tells me he is off to ride his Harley through the golden autumn colours in Nevada. A black bear saunters across the road. As we pass, it climbs up to a perch directly above a pedestrian tunnel. A morning jogger exits the tunnel, oblivious to his furry observer just a couple of meters above.

The trailhead at Lake George is quiet. The summer frenzy has passed, only a few morning fishermen about, and I have the trail - a conga-line of hikers only weeks ago - largely to myself. The weight of the pack is a comfort. Why is it that this burden relieves the load of life’s daily worries and makes me strong? I ponder this paradox and settle into a steady rhythm, relishing the symphony of lungs and muscles working in concert. The effort seems to ignite a firestorm of thoughts and ideas that explode into consciousness, a veritable Fourth of July of new connections and insights. The scientist in me attributes this to the activity of my brain’s default mode network, from which creativity is thought to spring in times of idle day-dreaming. Or perhaps it’s the magic of the mountains at work.

Crystal Crag

The trail zigzags up through lodgepole pines, skirting the cliffs leading to the soaring Crystal Crag from the back of Lake George. The lake sparkles and beckons, eliciting fantasies of a graceful swan dive right off the trail to plunge into the azure waters below. Past the junction to Crystal Lake,  Mammoth Mountain comes into view, it’s volcanic red slopes contrasting with the granite cliffs above McLeod Lake which in turn cede to scoria beneath my feet. There is a complex geology around here. I resolve to learn more.

Mixed geology: scoria of the Red Cone and granite cliffs of the Crest

A sharp breeze finds me as I reach the Red Cone, the heap of scoria that marks the intersection with the Mammoth Crest, after the final (inevitable, right?) steep slog. A travel-worn young couple arrive at the same moment from the other direction. They have been out for 10 days, following the High Sierra Route, a network of cross-country passes and little used trails that follows the spine of the Sierra Nevada roughly parallel to the John Muir Trail. I am envious of their abraded and patched clothes, their weary but wiry bodies, their beatific smiles and even their unwashed smell - it all speaks of stories to be told, memories to treasure. I wish them luck and set off again.

The open ridgeline of the Mammoth Crest offers easy hiking and expansive views from the delicate jagged spires of the Minarets and the twin hulks of Mt Banner and Mt Ritter to the north, to Mammoth Mountain to the lakes in the basin below. The breeze gusts and I shiver as the sun passes behind building clouds.

It is a stark environment atop this exposed, sandy ridge at nearly 11,000 ft. Lodgepole pine has given way to windblown and gnarled whitebark pine that grows hunkered in sparse clumps. A few hardy lupin are still in bloom, clinging to life flattened against the ground. The trail traverses away from the Crest to circumvent a high point. I pass a day hiker resting, then stop to rest and am passed by the same man. We continue a leapfrogging steady climb, exchanging a few pleasantries with each encounter. Finally, we round the corner almost in unison….and the ground drops away.

I linger in this aerie, spellbound and reluctant to leave. Lunch on a ledge, feet dangling. Rather than continuing on the trail which leads away from the abyss, down towards Deer Lakes, I meander up along the brink, exploring every vantage point.  Each is more spell-binding than the last, revealing new perspectives on the world below, a hidden lake, a soaring crack system. A large marmot scurries along a few meters in front of me, unfazed by my presence. We share the same predilection for high places; everywhere I pause to peer over the edge is marked by an abundance of droppings.

 

Eventually, I reach a low point in the Crest and reluctantly turn to the task of locating Deer Lakes, my destination for the night. A quick look at the map, and an easy descent leads me to the trail again and on to Middle Deer Lake, nestled beneath the forbidding peak of the Black Giant. I camp in solitude.

That evening Mother Nature puts on a sublime private light show as the sun pops out from behind gathering clouds in time to bathe the landscape in celestial glory before sinking below the horizon. I am awestruck again. People sometimes ask what church I attend, and I tell them, somewhat flippantly, that I worship in the Church of the Great Outdoors. This, then, is surely mighty cathedral.

Early the following morning, travelling cross country around the remainder of the Crest to meet the main trail at Duck Pass, my progress is again slow. I want to soak up the dawn light, drink in the views, remember these fleeting hours. Despite a restless night in my shelter, I am uplifted, energised and bursting with a sense of immense joy and freedom.

The high endures all the way back down the steep, rocky trail as it switchbacks into the Lakes Basin, then past a series of its lakes: Skelton, Barney…, along a streamside use trail that offers an alternative route to the trailhead, through the half-empty Coldwater campground, along the road to the shuttle stop at Lake Mary, back down the hill into town, and eventually to the front door. The hunger has been quenched.

Descending from Duck Pass into the Lakes Basin

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So what was it that my companion played that day top Mammoth Crest? An aptly majestical piece of music. Enjoy!

The All-Dessert Dinner: Twenty Lakes Basin 2008 and 2018

Did we only get this far? I pause, unsure, reaching my mind back, casting about for some vestige of familiarity. It's a sunny, brilliant Sierra day in September, and I have set out to explore the Twenty Lakes Basin area just east of Yosemite. As I stride along the trail, it occurs to me that 10 years have passed since my last trip. Our last trip. 

"You've got the tent, right?", I asked Alistair. "No, I thought you had it", he replied. "No, I thought you packed it". We had reached the site of our first night out on our very first family backpacking trip. With Tenaya, age 7, and Tara, age 4 1/2, we had embarked on this pint-sized adventure at the tail end of a Yosemite camping trip. We had caught the boat taxi down Saddlebag Lake, and hiked into to one of the area's many lakes, this one a little off-trail, perhaps a mile and a half all told. "Hiked" was putting it strongly; it had taken us a good two hours, countless chocolate bribes, several multi-chapter made-up-on-the-fly stories, and much wheedling. Tara had carried her ladybug sleeping bag and Tenaya, a small pack of clothes; Alistair and I were laden like packhorses with the rest of the gear. But we had finally made it to a perfect slice of alpine paradise, a campsite on a grassy bench sitting above a gorgeous cliff-ringed lake. Splendid isolation. 

On the trail. Tara is sporting her ladybug sleeping bag pack.

Alistair and the girls en route

A rest stop for chocolate. I think we had covered perhaps half a mile.

Today, I can't fathom where it was that we left the main trail to find that first campsite. Surely we made it further than this? It seemed like we were on the trail for a long time. The view of the sheer east face of North Peak looming to the west jogs memories, however. The high alpine setting, beginning at Saddlebag Lake at about 10,000 feet, is superb and I am every bit as charmed as a decade earlier.

Further along the trail in 2018 than we made it in 2008. Just as stunning!

In the parking lot before starting out, Alistair had left me with the kids to go in search of the park ranger rumoured to be getting breakfast at the resort back down the road, to secure the requisite wilderness permit. I had been throwing food and equipment into my pack sorting the backpacking gear from the camping gear, whilst trying to keep an eye on the girls. Several hours, a boat ride, and an admittedly torturous hike later, the realization dawned that the tent was unequivocally back in the car. "How do you feel about sleeping under the stars?" Alistair asked Tenaya and Tara hopefully. 

This trip, the boat taxi is defunct. It was run by the Saddlebag Lake Resort, which was pummeled by the exceptionally snowy winter of 2016-2017 and is now up for sale. I paddle the length of the lake in our new kayak to avoid the lengthy additional hike along the lake. Partway along, the wind picks up and the water becomes choppy. I fight to keep the kayak on course, shoulders aching, feeling uncertain in my paddling skills.

The new boat taxi after paddling down Saddelbag Lake

The tent would have to be retrieved. I drew the short straw.  I scampered and skipped back across to the trail and jogged down to the boat dock. Having no money for the boat taxi fare, I pled our predicament to the driver. An hour later, I puffed back up the hill carrying the precious shelter, the altitude burning my unacclimatized lungs.  The tent up, we whiled away the golden afternoon. Tenaya and Tara shucked off their shoes and played in the lake and stream, inevitably getting soaked.  They leaped joyously and raucously from rock to rock and inspected wildflowers at the height of their glorious bloom. Tenaya was a bundle of contradiction, of highs and lows wrapped up in stubbornness. Tara was the mellow one, clinging to me, sweet and sturdy, perceiving the world so differently from the rest of us. Alistair and I reveled in their innocence, their enthusiasm, their playfulness, their curiosity.

Getting wet....

Tara age 4 1/2

Tenaya (7) and Tara (4 1/2)  climbing on rocks.

A decade on, so much has changed. That innocence is long gone, eroded by the inevitable march of time.  Tenaya is still fiery and feisty, but now, as a near-adult, her stubbornness manifests as a passion in her beliefs and in a desire to change the world. Tara, taller than me now and entering high school,  is quietly independent and sails on through life with an understated competence. I think that I mostly embarrass her now.

So grown up - Tara (14) and Tenaya (17) on Convict Lake

At dinner time, we realized another error resulting from the parking lot chaos: chocolate mousse had been substituted for the girls' freeze-dried mac & cheese. There was only one thing for it - fed them a dinner of chocolate mousse followed by berry cheesecake and hot chocolate. It was to become a meal of legend in the family history!

Preparing the All Dessert Dinner

The trip would become known in family lore as The One Where We Forgot The Tent And Had An All-Dessert Dinner. The family backpacking trip became an annual event, each foray added to the family treasure chest of memories, labeled roughly:

• The one where the girls out-climbed other grownups on Mt Hoffman
• The one where Tara impaled herself on an ice ax 
• The one with the snake in the jacket and the lizard on Tenaya's head when she was swimming
• The one where we swam in a lily pond and Dad caught a frog
• The one where Tara sliced her foot open swimming and there was a giant thunderstorm
• The one when Tenaya had chocolate fudge brownies for her 13th birthday 
• The one where Tara slid down the snow on her raincoat and ruined it.  

After a final sugar-induced burst of energy as alpenglow ignited the ramparts of North Peak, Alistair and the girls shoe-horned into our two-person backpacking tent. I volunteered to bivy under the stars, somewhat removed from the protests and squabbles about knees and elbows emanating from within the thin fabric. As the stars came up, and sleep overtook small weary limbs, I crept somewhat sheepishly back to the tent and lay down right outside it. It wasn't a night to feel alone.

Sleeping arrangements

I manage to miss a turn off the trail and instead follow what turns out to be an old mining road to a vantage point above Steelhead Lake. In the distance, I think I can pick out where we had camped. But the moment is bittersweet.




In a perfect narrative, the stuff of outdoor magazines and online trip report featuring intrepid families, my daughters would be strong, keen, confident outdoors people, forging off on their own after a decade of family adventures in the backcountry, reveling in the freedom and the challenge and the beauty of exploring the mountains. Alistair and I would look on as proud and slightly doting parents. Of course, the truth is different. Teenage rebellion has squelched family backpacking trips. Feet have been firmly planted in resistance and any suggestion of a 'hike' or even a 'walk' meets with vigorous protest. Yet, I think these experiences have shaped them, guided them, molded them in some way. Tenaya is determined to explore the world, expand her horizons, seek her own adventures. Tara's calm facade belies underlying grit. On rare occasion, she will scramble around on high rocky peaks, a mountain goat like her father, and a there is a fleeting glimpse of that innocent, joyful child of 10 years ago. I reflect that they will each choose their own path in life and that it will likely be very different from the path I have chosen. But that is what they must do. And as I love them, I must let them go.  After all, the mountains will always be there, should they choose to return.