Lhakpa Wongchu Sherpa and I set out
from Shishapangma Advanced Base Camp on 25 April in heavy snow, limited
visibility, and a gentle breeze that left the long string of prayer flags
blowing gently in the wind. Despite the weather, we felt warm and safe in the
mountains as we began to make our way up to Depot Camp at 5800m.
It was a long, slow plod over a maze of rock, mud and snow
with limited opportunity to appreciate the mighty mountain vistas hidden in the
mist. We’d only been teased with fleeting views of this 8025m summit, the 14th
highest in the world.
I had been planning this ‘Himalayan Double Header’
expedition for six months: climb Shishapangma from early April to mid-May and
then travel overland to climb the 6th highest mountain in the world, Cho Oyu
for a mid-late May summit. If successful I would be the first woman in 23 years
to have done so and the 2nd woman ever.
When we reached the Depot Camp, I sat reflecting on my
passion for mountaineering. Mountains provide context, they are humbling and
make you realise there are forces in nature that will never be harnessed, that
won't bend to our schedules. Rather, we bend to theirs. Coming from a
consulting job that demands structure and planning, I find this lack of
‘control’ in mountaineering an opportunity for reckless mental and physical
creativity liberating.
I was tired but content. I took a sip of water and looked
down at my watch. 11.55am. My ears picked up a faint, deep rumbling sound that
broke the silence and sparked an almost animal-like instinct. Something wasn't
right. The rumbling continued, louder and louder.
My initial instinct was that this was an avalanche, but
where was it coming from? We were literally surrounded by mountains on all
sides and had zero visibility. The ground then began to shift back and forth in
a slow rhythmic movement. Earthquake.
Lhakpa shouted over the roaring sound of falling rock and
ice. Through the mist we tried desperately to establish the direction from
which the avalanche would come. We huddled next to a rock, our eyes darting in
all directions, hugging each other, terrified, praying that the rumbling and
shaking would stop.
In what felt like an eternity, the seismic shifts beneath
our feet finally subsided. As we fearfully made our way back to Advanced Base
Camp, we noticed the impact of the quake and the avalanches of snow and rock it
had released. There were fresh cracks in the ground, loose boulders dislodged,
cracked ice in the lakes. Almost eerily, the snow stopped and the cloud lifted,
and rather than a scene of destruction and devastation, the mountain vista stretched
out before us seemed almost beautiful, natural and strangely rebalanced.
Back in Advanced Base Camp we learned that the earthquake
had been widespread but were limited to the details by an almost complete lack
of communications. It wasn’t until our evacuation from the mountain and arrival
back in Kathmandu on 5 May that I began to realise the full scale of the
disaster. I’d only heard about the tragedy on Everest but hadn’t prepared
myself for the bigger picture. It was overwhelming, at a scale unprecedented to
my senses and any previous frames of reference.
My first day back in Kathmandu was an emotional roller
coaster walking through the rubble and dust of the once familiar streets and
past ancient monuments. Concerned for my wellbeing, family and friends demanded
I return home. But going home would mean turning my back on a country that had
been so incredibly generous to me since my first visit 15 years ago. I knew I
had skills that would be helpful in mobilising the aid required to provide
relief and support the rebuilding of the country. I decided to stay and help my
friend Tashi Sherpa of Sherpa Adventure Gear and his team raise funds for
earthquake relief through the Sherpa Adventure Gear Paldorje Education
Foundation and provide assistance with the distribution of aid to those most in
need.
On 12 May I was in Kathmandu assisting with this relief work
when the second earthquake struck with a magnitude 7.3. Being on a mountain for
the first earthquake and in a city for the second was equally terrifying. This
time the danger wasn’t avalanches coming down, it was the buildings.
On the ground relief work has opened my eyes to the scale of
the disaster: many villages still look like a war zone. Buildings tilt at
vertiginous angles, a door or window visible through a twisted mess of
corrugated iron. Brown dust drifts over the disintegrated remains of once proud
homes.
I’ve since travelled and distributed relief to areas that I
didn’t even know existed, unpronounceable place names on a map are now
personified by images of rubble and the outstretched arms of the vulnerable.
This week, we distributed relief to a community in Dolakha. Last week I
travelled to the Khumbu to deliver financial aid to 234 families in Thame, and
delivered aid to survivors of the Langtang tragedy now living at the Yellow
Gompa in Kathmandu. Over the past month we’ve distributed over a thousand tents
and tarps, thousands of kg of food, and provided extensive financial support.
I’ve seen more of the country and met more incredibly inspiring, resilient
people than I’ve ever thought possible.
Amid the long, deep cracks and between the rubble, I’ve also
found something to be positive about for the longer-term future of the country.
This is the initiative and energy of Nepal’s youth which is rapidly gaining
momentum: a groundswell which will bring greater and longer-lasting change than
the devastating earthquakes.
Sometimes I forget that I originally came to Nepal in early
April to climb mountains. Little did I know that when I arrived that these
mountains would be more proverbial than real. The people that I've met, the
things I've seen and the lessons learned have been more impactful than any
summit I've ever attempted, stood on or dreamed about.
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