Day Five-continued

Nanoseconds before Nepali-Kujo launches, sinking its teeth into our tender calf or thigh muscles, a fearless porter armed with a stick from his bushel of firewood, bludgeons the brute, forcing his retreat. Thank you sweet Lord! With a new lease on life (or at least a better appreciation of mobility from the thighs down), we continue ahead together to Timang, and breathe our sighs of relief over a hot lemon from a quaint teahouse, liberally strung with the green, yellow, red and blue of prayer flags; the first we’ve seen on the trail. **Buddhists believe the wind takes your prayers ( written across the colorful linen squares) up to the heavens for God to hear and answer.** We leave Ron, who waits for his daughter Christiana (who is still adjusting to the exerting schedule), to continue through this deceptively high yawn, sprawling and soaring at over 2500m above sea level.

You could easily mistake the magnificent high-altitude fields of Timang for those at the base of the Alps in Germany, Austria or Switzerland. Cobble-stoned paths, weathered rustic wooden-fences, vivid wildflowers of fuchsia and yellow sprout from a rolling carpet of greenery, and massive Manaslu, ensconced with an impressive entourage of snow-caked false peaks, occupies the entire south-western horizon. A chocolate cow dozes across our path, taking full advantage of the relaxing warmth of midday, and clinching the sleepy, intense beauty of this little village.

Another slew of commemorative snapshots. It’s as if each step forward unveils an even better view, a more intense panorama than the last.

Our tanks are on full after the rest, hot lemon, Mars Bars and conversation we had with Ron, and we break into a brisk pace happily discussing our noticeable improvement in fitness. We’re definitely due after 50 hours in 5 days of forcibly cudgeling, contorting our ill-prepared, lactic-acid-swollen limbs up these mountains.

At our current pace, I surmise the circuit trek rivals a hard-core military boot camp: painfully crawling a razor-thin line separating too-much-too-fast-too-soon collapse or emotionally-charged accomplishment of the seemingly impossible. Keep in mind, this is coming from a disciplined I-can-take-pain marathon-runner not a child of the lazy, video-game, fast-food culture of America.

The healing pass of time, unless the joke’s on us, caused those we interviewed to omit the grueling intensity and unrelenting sweat, pain, breathlessness, discomfort involved in this trek. For those interested, in no uncertain terms: It’s flagrantly f#&^%#ing hard, especially when you carry your own gear. You’d be wise to train for months before setting off. We didn’t, and of course, the plus side, is your body is whipped violently into superb shape, shedding pounds of fat in less than one week amidst the stunning glory of the Himalaya. Which, of course, is not too shabby. In addition, there aren’t many situations in a cosmopolitan life where you’re eclipsed by nature, required to be largely self-sufficient, utilizing your corporal brawn over brain and, I must say, it feels surprisingly good. Maybe it’s the primal satisfaction of knowing you can carve out survival without modern, technological convenience; even despite our planetary evolution towards feeble, dependent cream-puffery; ( I chew a chocolate donut as I type)

The long days of intense and steady exercise have quadrupled my normal food intake, and I’m a bit too aghast (and short on time) to list what I consume in a typical day; suffice to say it’s around 4500 calories. Don’t divert your disgusted attention yet, as I attest my (grimace) 4 Snickers a day-the #1 trekking staple- aren’t inhibiting my accelerated-Dr. Doolittle-ish weight loss. It seems I’m burning, blisteringly, through the inordinate amount of food I’m eating; my chugging intestines, regular high-speed digestive plumbing. A business idea faintly flickers in lights: “Attention chunky! Forget failing Fat Camp and jowls jammed with Jenny Craig. Jiggle your wide load to trek Nepal!” Maybe the marketing’s off, but you get my drift…

Anyway, finally we feel fitter. The welcome realization of improved fitness boosts our mood, and Troy and I bask in the warmth and pleasance of each other’s company, trotting towards a narrowing switchback, to climb beyond, up and away from Timang. Our chunky boots crunch along the powdery dirt and gravel, splashes of sunlight dancing with shade, dappling our chalky path. A few moderate hours outside of Timang we notice the next sloping incline, shaded, flanked by crackling branches, looming languidly above the distant hiss of the river. It’s long, but not remarkably steep, in comparison from what we’ve tackled, and we are surprised to lose our breath so quickly. The routine 2 minute rest we’ve employed thus far doesn’t do the trick, and we pass an indefinite period wheezing and huffing, hungrily gasping for the remaining oxygen in thinning air. Have we suddenly aged 40 years? Was it delayed reaction from the gravity bong? Did that last Snickers send me to death? No. No and No. It’s our first taste of an at-altitude symptom- breathlessness- and quite sobering considering we’re less than half the height we’ll reach soon.

AMS, or acute mountain sickness, is a dangerous consequence of ascending too quickly; the reduced concentration of oxygen in the air too low for the respiratory and circulatory systems of your body to assimilate and function properly. The highest point of earth, roughly 8800m, 28800ft or the cruising altitude of a commercial airliner, has roughly 1/3 less oxygen in the air than at sea-level, and if you were to take someone from Amsterdam and place them at the top of Mount Everest, their lungs would flood, blood thicken, brain swell, and they’d be dead in 2 minutes. Unfortunately, despite awareness efforts of HRA (Himalayan Rescue Association) and KEEP ( Kathmandu Environmental Education Project), and the fact that AMS is entirely preventable, deaths of trekkers in Nepal from AMS continue to occur each year.

As the paranoid obsessive compulsive hypochondriac already with just “medium-health” (as one local fortuneteller informed me), I researched the hell out of AMS via Google, Lonely Planet and lectures at the HRA. The unsettling truth of every at-altitude activity is: you cannot predict your own acclimatization, regardless of how you’ve done in the past. Each time and every person is different, and contrary to logic, youth and physical fitness cannot prevent AMS- in fact, older out of shape trekkers are less susceptible as they climb slower than their younger, fitter counterparts. Children are at higher risk as they fail to communicate their symptoms in time.

Basically, there is no fail-safe avoidance, blanket panacea, save listening to your body, which, in early stages can be hazy at best. Most alarming, however, is the fact that some never acclimatize, despite the most generous, gentle schedule of ascent (slower than the suggested 300m per day over 3000m) and this combined with a delayed onset of symptoms clearly spells ( to an OCD) L-E-A-V-E N-E-P-A-L N-O-W.

Troy self-assuredly says “Like getting into a car or crossing the street, you take your odds and hope you’re not that caveat”. I nod, smiling, while trying to control the incessant replay of my death: my swollen brain popping from my skull on a remote snowy peak.

Insult to injury is that the throbbing head, dehydration, lightheadedness, and cumulative exhaustion often accompanying intense hiking could also be the early symptoms of AMS which are: breathlessness, fatigue, nausea, headache and dizziness. Ill-educated or strictly-scheduled trekkers ignoring ( or misdiagnosing) their symptoms inevitably and quickly deteriorate into acute AMS, advanced pulmonary and/or cerebral edema, and then, death. In the event you have any symptoms, you’re advised to stay at that altitude and rest. If you worsen, even if at night, immediate descent with a partner is suggested.

In addition to heeding early warning signals and rest, drinking 5-6 liters of water per day helps prevent AMS. I’ve never consumed that quantity of liquid daily before, (about 1 and ½ gallons) and even during strenuous activity, Troy needs to constantly remind me to drink. It’s also challenging because our water tastes not like water, but a piss dirt slurpee. (The passing of CO2 through urine, increases the concentration of oxygen in the blood stream and one of the effects of the controversial drug for AMS, Diamox, is increased urination. On it’s own, urinating more frequently is a good indicator you’re acclimating properly.)

“Always drink copiously” says a large metal sign punctuating the circuit; including symptoms and treatment for AMS: “Listen to your body” and “Descend, descend, descend!” ACAP ( Annapurna Conservation Area Protection) also had sufficient foresight to include a further clarification- most useful for European trekkers- “this does not include alcoholic beverages”. Visions of an army of red-faced, bloated drunks, staggering up the mountain, stopping diligently on the Throng La Pass for their keg stands. This method of mountaineering is apparently in the not suggested column.

**An aside: Isn’t it interesting that, like the sign and the strange warnings on packing (i.e. “Do not get in eyes” on a bottle of mouthwash) when something implied is spelled out, it’s because someone industrious tested the waters for yet undiscovered exceptions to the rule. Somewhere out there is the creative man who ran out of eye drops, mistakenly looking to the leftover Listerine.**

We follow the sign’s insistence and after a chunky-water chugging, we feel ready to continue, though still feeling the sluggish weight of minor fatigue. My heartbeat is still pattering-another symptom of high-altitude- and I try to control it with relaxed deep breaths. It abides…for now. Mercifully, the remainder of the day is spent without losing or gaining further height; it’s a relatively flat path. It’s serendipitous, because if this were steep, we’d probably need to spend a night back in Timang, literally catching our breath. But, we truck on.