Cherry Pickin’

Author © Scott D. Zachary

       I don’t like this “bucket list” notion, turning adventures into a monotonous to-do list. That’s tedium. I’ve always preferred spontaneity. If you must have a catchy name for it, then let’s call it “spontaneous humanoid combustion.” No, let’s don’t. I prefer the sound of “cherry pickin’.” Webster defines that as “selection of the best or most desirable.” Let’s go with that.

       In October 1993, I lived in a three-bedroom, third-floor apartment in South Africa. On this indelible morning, I locked my front door, stepped to the balcony railing, grasped it, and jubilated to the high heavens. “Another beautiful day in Johannesburg!”

       I panned the cloudless royal-blue sky as my Zulu housekeeper Ntokozo hollered her usual greeting up at me from the garden. “Good luck, Master Scott!” I had long since given up imploring Ntokozo not to call me “Master.”

       “Good luck to you, Ntokozo. You are such a joy!” (Ntokozo means “joy” in the Zulu language.)

       She beamed her beautiful, motherly smile. “You is my favoritest everest, Master Scott!”

       Ntokozo’s cute expression pervaded my regard to such an extent that I called my travel agent later that morning and asked her to look into trekking adventures to Mount Everest for me. By mid-afternoon, Anna booked me on a fourteen-day trekking/mountain climbing excursion to the Base Camp of Mount Everest. That’s how cherry pickin’ works—I continually scan the realm of possibilities for the most desirable “cherry.” I spot it. I reach out. I pick it.

       My Everest trek would transpire during the following April and May with a couple of days for relaxation on my way back to South Africa in each of Katmandu, Bangkok, and Singapore.

       I immediately instituted an insane training plan. I made it my unwavering goal to have fun on my trek to Mount Everest and not make it an endurance test. Over the next six months, I put myself through hell revamping my body with muscle tone and stamina. I trained six days every week—Monday through Saturday. A typical evening of training began by running five to seven miles on the hills where I lived in Sandton, a posh suburb of Johannesburg. Afterward, I took a quick shower, inhaled a two-pound T-bone steak at the Silver Pine Spur Steak Ranch, grabbed a 12-pack of Castle beer, and returned to work where I drank and programmed until either it was time for the Rattlesnake nightclub to start hopping or the alcohol-induced haze caused my logic to go south.

       I don’t recommend that you include the following in your training regimen unless you are a thoroughbred practicing alcoholic as was I. A pitcher of margaritas in hand, I danced and danced and danced until sweat drenched my clothes, top to bottom. My ritualistic dance consisted of two to three hours of flexing my calves and thighs as I swayed back and forth into a lower and lower stance, and then I slowly, excruciatingly extended my leg muscles back into an upright position. I repeated this exercise many hundreds of times every night.

       I asked a couple of the young gals to dance with me. By their suspicious looks, they likely pegged me as another bar vulture looking for a quick score. Undeterred, I boogied all alone for the first several evenings. Happily, all of the young ladies soon realized that I was there for one reason—to train for Everest in the process of getting thoroughly inebriated. I wasn’t interested in their sexy young bodies (not so—but for the time being, getting ready for Everest was paramount). Their fascination prompted these beautiful young ladies to dance with me in a circle to assist with my idiotic training methodology. I cannot imagine anything that would stimulate a 37-year-old man in his preparation to step foot on Everest more than having a dozen foxy young girls encouraging him to push himself beyond his physical limits as he swilled pitchers of margaritas in rhythm to his favorite sixties and seventies American rock music at full volume. Not anything.

       I’m confident that I didn’t tell anyone at the Rattlesnake that I was going to summit Everest, and I’m also pretty sure that I didn’t say I wasn’t. What they didn’t know, didn’t hurt them. Fourteen days of trekking through the Himalayan Mountains to and from the Base Camp of Everest was a sufficient goal for my liking. I’d leave the top of Everest to the genuine crackpots.

       I must’ve been a sight to behold: a graying, middle-aged man, not in the least self-conscious of the quirky repetitive dancing exercises I was performing, nor of the always-present pitcher of margaritas in my hand, nor of my R1,700 ($478) purple trekking boots. Now throw in a gaggle of beautiful young ladies nearly half my age cheering me on while envied by every man at the bar. Everyone knew I was serious, though. They could see the progressively pronounced knots in my calves because I wore shorts, which also made my purple trekking boots conspicuously bizarre on the dance floor.

       For a couple of weeks during my six months of training sessions at the Rattlesnake, I joined some of the young ladies dancing on barstools. That was fun! It came to a painful halt, though, when I fell. I landed squarely on my tailbone. I sat there and cried and cried—but I didn’t spill my pitcher of margaritas! That terrible pain subsided after about twenty minutes, and like the idiot I was, I got back up on the barstool. I drank another pitcher of margaritas and fell on my butt a second time, vowing to never, ever dance on a barstool again. Those two collisions with that concrete floor were the most painful experiences of my entire life. If that isn’t stupid enough for you, I drove home every night in a blackout. (Two decades later, the author Eva Pasco summarized, “God destined you for great plans, so He wouldn’t allow you to screw up despite your shenanigans.”) One thing’s for sure, I intimately courted disaster, trying my inadvertent best to self-destruct.

       I wrapped up my night of physical festivities with 50 to 100 laps up and down the three flights of outside stairs to my apartment and fizzled into bed for four hours of rock-solid sleep.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Katmandu

       I walked across the airport tarmac and met the friendly, turbaned representative from Outshine Adventure who welcomed me to Nepal. The many stray cows in the streets of Katmandu paid little notice as he whisked me to their well-organized, two-story adventure churn.

       The people at Outshine Adventure thoroughly checked my gear to ensure that I could weather the trek to Everest. I had purchased the best sleeping bag available in Johannesburg, which the manufacturer rated for 10°F. They recommended that I use mine as a liner for the one they provided me, and I did.

       Outshine’s seasoned British adviser explained that Lukla is where most people begin the ascent to Mount Everest Base Camp. The next fastest route to Everest besides flying into Lukla involves a ten-hour bus ride from Katmandu and a week of trekking to Lukla. He informed me about the deadly effects of altitude sickness—pulmonary and cerebral edema (excess accumulation of fluid in the lungs or brain) which can strike anyone regardless of age and degree of physical fitness. The adviser underscored the seriousness of altitude sickness by telling me about two German trekkers who died three weeks earlier while ascending too quickly from Lukla to Everest without reasonably acclimatizing as they increased their altitude. He assured me that my Sherpas were exceptionally knowledgeable about reducing the risk of altitude sickness, but he also emphasized that this was no guarantee.

       I signed Outshine’s liability release forms, and their driver escorted me to the plane that transported me from Katmandu to Lukla—the starting point of my trek.

My Journal from Lukla to Everest

Day 1

       Our 19-passenger de Havilland Twin Otter STOL (short takeoff and landing) aircraft threaded the dazzling Himalayas along our flight from Katmandu to Tenzing-Hillary Airport snugged against the village of Lukla. This airport’s title enshrines the names of Sherpa Tenzing Norgay and Sir Edmund Hillary—the first climbers to summit Everest. (This airport has been rated the most dangerous airport in the world. I’ll tell you about my flight into the second most dangerous airport in another story.) We landed on a small rock shelf notched out of the mountainside. The terrain offers little prospect for a successful go-around should a pilot need to abort the landing. Immediately upon touchdown at the edge of the precipitous cliff, the pilot reversed the engines forcefully, stuttering the plane to a stop a short distance before crashing into the mountain.

       Introduced to Sherpas: Tenzin (the lead Sherpa), Shekhar, and Shamar. Met Charles, a 59-year-old British botanist who joined the team for this trek to the tallest mountain on Earth.

       After lunch, we began our trek from Lukla at 9,334 feet elevation with a “warm-up” hike for three hours to Phakding. The scenery along the way was marvelously alien to anything I had ever seen. Charles recited the Latin names for each of the beautiful species of rhododendron shrubs that adorned our path. Interspersed, he highlighted his mountaineering treks throughout the world.

       Our entourage includes a cook and his two helpers who are preparing a fine-smelling feast as I write. Dinner time!

Day 2

       Tenzin greeted me with “Namaste!” as he delivered a tub of hot water to the doorway of my tent for my bath this morning. What a nice surprise! I see why Charles said we’d be pampered colonial style. They carry our gear, pitch our tents (including a mess tent and a toilet tent), and cook our food, leaving us to enjoy the spectacularly scenic hike!

       I followed a porter up a mountain today. This little guy wearing flip-flops carried a massive wooden beam—perhaps 1’x1’x16’. He rigged a strap over his head to steady the timber upright on his back as he baby-stepped up the steep incline, his life in the balance. Every so often, he rested for a moment by leaning against the towering beam. I waited while he rested so I could continue studying his mannerisms, his demeanor, and his way of being in general because I envied his unconditional peace. Tenzin said the porters carry everything into these mountains; most earn the equivalent of a dollar a day. I looked into that porter’s eyes; he seemed perfectly content, euphoric even.

       Trekked six hours today and my legs were ready for more. The girls at the Rattlesnake would be proud of me. I’m glad I rigorously prepared for this physical feat.

Day 3

       Acclimatization day in Namche Bazaar (12,303 feet above sea level), the central trading post for the region.

       We’ve climbed 3,000 feet in altitude from Lukla. Last night I lay in my sleeping bag wheezing, laboring to breathe in enough oxygen. I must quit smoking to have any chance of reaching Base Camp. After breakfast, I torched all of my cigarettes in the campfire.

       After lunch, I think I’ll wander around town and find out what kind of beers they serve here.

Day 4

       I woke up this morning, unzipped my tent door, and snuggled in my sleeping bag, recovering while I savored the pillowy descent of the fluffy snowflakes.

       Tenzin somehow found me about ten o’clock last night in a dingy, little mud-hut bar where an Australian couple and I laughed ourselves to oblivion while chugging every imaginable brand of American, European, and Australian beer. We toasted each popped top to the porters who carried these beers across the mountains on their backs. I figured I had missed supper, but the cook kept my dinner warm for hours. These guys are over the top!

       The porters used several yaks to help carry their loads today. I followed them for a while. The yaks’ sure-footedness is uncanny—no fear.

       We traversed several long swinging bridges—perhaps 100 to 200 meters in length. I quickly learned not to walk on them with my usual swagger because it caused the bridges to sway sideways over the whitewater far below. Instead, I delicately padded one foot in front of the other as my adrenaline spurted! Looking back, I watched Tenzin assist Charles when the bridge began swinging widely. The yaks didn’t hesitate.

       We visited Tengboche Buddhist Monastery today: intricate, colorful, and sparse. The monks’ rhythmic chants mesmerized. How do I become a monk? I’m often oblivious to the physical world anyway. Probably no beer though. I spun the Monastery’s ornate prayer wheels, requesting a meaningful purpose in my life.

Day 5

       While eating my breakfast of scrambled eggs, fried potatoes, sausage, and biscuits this morning, I noticed the cook and his two assistants—laden with large backpacks—run out of camp. Several hours later, we strolled into another campsite where our cooks had already prepared a rich beef and vegetable stew, cornbread, and butterscotch pudding for dessert.

       I conquered my fear of heights again today by variously stepping to the brink, staring down into infinity, and walking away victorious!

       Raced young Shamar to the top of a mountain. I won! It’s amazing what red blood cells can do when freed from their customary payload of carbon monoxide.

       Sat atop another mountain, bathing in the mist of clouds, surrounded by mounds of stacked token rocks symbolizing “I was here.” No peace have I known like this.

       Shekhar astonishes me! I’d spot him far above us on a trail to the right and then on a precipice beyond us to the left, like a mirage appearing, disappearing, and reappearing elsewhere.

Day 6

       I woke up in the middle of the night and gazed out the door of my tent. Never have I seen such a myriad of brilliant stars in the sky. Presumably due to the high altitude and no man-made lights to interfere. I wondered if the inspiration for Vincent van Gogh’s The Starry Night compared to this glorious magnificence. That starry panorama suffused me with a feeling of insignificance, yet believers have told me that God knows how many hairs are on my head.

       Day after day, everywhere I look, majestic beauty engulfs my vision. Did Mother Nature shake up her box of rocks and sludge for billions of years, resulting in my conceptual awareness of and appreciation for beauty? I think not. I cannot definitively prove that God exists, but I am not foolish enough to deny His existence. Perhaps God exists in all of us to whatever extent we allow Him. Supreme Creator: Thank you for making all this possible!

       Watched, and watched, camera at the ready to capture an avalanche as we trekked today. Ominous appendages of snow dangled high up on the face of peaks around us.

Day 7

       An avalanche today! YAY! Watched it sweep down the face of Lhotse (the fourth highest mountain in the world) long before we heard its rumble. Snap!

       Trekked up the Khumbu Glacier. Excreted columns of ice precariously hoisted automobile-size boulders, forming strange mushroom-looking spectacles.

       Memorials chiseled into the rock faces along our trail solemnly rendered epitaphs for climbers who ended their journey here.

Day 8

       Today, we climbed nearly 2,000 feet up a mountain that faces Everest. Across the divide, the snow blew horizontally from the crest of Everest issuing a wispy warning against the azure sky. Or perhaps a banner cloud waving its fatal greeting. Looking down farther along the Khumbu Glacier (the highest glacier in the world, fed by Everest’s reputed deadly icefall), we could see the Mount Everest Base Camp (17,600 feet above sea level) sprinkled with colored dots signifying the climbers’ tents. These climbers would summit Everest this season—or die trying.

       Charles, a few other trekkers, and I sat admiring Mount Everest. Divinity rendered its lofty grandeur from a palette of majesty. Tenzin hand-fed bits of a granola bar to a bird that resembled a wren. It appeared to have no fear of him as it pecked the crumbs from his palm.

       Using my aluminum walking cane to stabilize myself, I sand-/snow-skied down the mountainside, leaping to another patch of loose particulates each time my boots grabbed hold. It took us hours to ascend that mountain, but it only took a few minutes to descend. WOW!

       Camping tonight in Lobuche. Everest Base Camp tomorrow!

Click here to read Part 2 of “Cherry Pickin’ ”