First Steps

Whoever said “What doesn't kill me will make me stronger” never climbed the endless steps through Himalayan mountain villages, the uneven pathways to the massive Annapurna sentinels. Months on a stairmaster couldn't prepare the trekker for the relentlessly vertical stone steps of torture one must ascend and descend through villages, bamboo forests and mountainside to get to Annapurna Base Camp.

The journey began deceptively easy at Nayapul, instead of the notoriously difficult cliff staircases of Phedi where trekkers would turn back in tears abandoning all hope in anticipation of a more difficult trail ahead. Even though sleep evaded my pre-trek night, not from excitement but from the two pots of lemon tea too late discovered full of caffeine and not sleepy time herbal, as I lay wide awake in bed knowing a 6 a.m. start for me was laughable but necessary to reach the first destination – a five hour hike into Gandruk. Five hours, an easy day... I had hiked further in worse condition after major celebrations back home in Crested Butte.

At noon in a small village I hesitatingly order fried rice with egg and a Coke – surprisingly it is all delicious. Coca-Cola, which I never drink, has seek and destroy qualities that settles the stomach while it kills and dissolves anything it encounters. The added bonus of caffeine doesn't hurt. We head out into thunderous skies and rain that turns to downpour within five minutes. The stairs become even steeper – a treacherous slip and slide with torrents of water cascading down the smooth rocks. I am a lightning rod with my metal hiking pole. We duck for cover under the rickety porch of a home with goats, chickens and toothless old men until the deluge stops.

Back on the path I'm constantly trying to out pace donkeys ladened with bags of rice or supplies. They slide into me, losing their otherwise sure footing on the slippery boulders, almost knocking me off the path, their bells jangling like an alarm. You can hear them ringing as they approach and Dhanu yells, “Donkeys! Hurry!” but my guide doesn't understand that ski season is less than four weeks away and tweaking a knee or ankle is not an option. Neither is a helicopter lift out, or sketchy Nepali medical care.

More stairs, always stairs... step step breathe, step breathe step stop pant – when was your last cardiac evaluation? Dhanu stops often to see if I'm still standing with a look that bespeaks sympathy for the pathetic Rocky Mountain girl whose hair is getting whiter by the hour as the now blazing sun devours both color and energy. The downhill slide on the steps may be even worse than the winded uphill climb. Along all the places I have to stop to catch my breath, native women are passing, smiling casually full of ease with baskets strapped across their foreheads filled with a few 50 lb bags of rice, vegetables and small children piled on top. And they navigate these paths in flip flops. Of course, they also look twenty-five years older than anyone the same age in the modern western world.

Disturbingly, trekker trash is everywhere. Mostly Pan-Asian tourists who simply discard their wrappers and tissues on the ground with no regard for people or their communities. It litters the otherwise pristine environment in an area considered sacred to the Nepali.

The lodge we planned to stay in at Gandruk is booked and up we go to the next one, Gurung Cottages... clean, welcoming and a western toilet instead of a squat. I am happy, even though my legs are not. We eat in the cozy common room with Norwegians and sherpas, all of whom play cards afterwards. The trek is a social foray on all levels, people on the trails stop to converse and compare. In the morning after a 6 a.m. breakfast everyone packs up and heads either up or down to conquer their own personal stairs. Mine lay six hours ahead to the Dreaded Steps of Chomrong.