Everest Base Camp: The thin line (& air) between challenge and ecstasy

“Don’t let her fall asleep,” our hiking guide, Raj “Razz” Neaupane says.

Despite the sleeping bag, woollen blanket, two layers of thermals, socks, gloves, beanie and puffer jacket wrapped tight around me, I cannot stop shaking with cold.

As I try to still the shivers vibrating through my body, my breathing slows, puffs of air unfurling in white clouds in front of my mouth.

My close friend and trekking companion, Sana Boutros, walks in. Her face is tense with worry as she hurries over to my bedside to confirm my worst fear: “Razz has contacted the rescue team in Kathmandu. There’s an evac helicopter on standby.”

If my blood oxygen level keeps dropping, I’ll be airlifted before the day is out. It doesn’t matter that we’re only a few hours walk from Everest Base Camp, after seven days of hiking. I have no say.

We arrived at Gorak Shep, in the Himalayan region of Khumbu, less than an hour ago, after a brutal seven-hour hike from Dingboche.

The small village is the final stop on our journey to the base of Mt Everest, the highest peak in the world and one of the most iconic amongst hikers and nature-lovers. Sitting at an altitude of 5146m, Gorak Shep, which translates as “Dead Ravens” (because nothing lives there), lacks the protection of any kind of vegetation, exposing trekkers using the hamlet as their final stop on the way to Everest Base Camp to extreme cold, strong winds, and 50 per cent less oxygen than at sea level.

It means the risk of altitude sickness, which can be life-threatening, is even higher here than at any of the other settlements hikers embarking on the 11-day trek to and from EBC visit.

Before it can become fatal, altitude sickness, also known as mountain sickness, can cause symptoms like headache, shortness of breath, nausea, dizziness, vomiting, lethargy, loss of appetite, and reduced co-ordination.

I am currently experiencing five of these.

The most effective treatment option is descending to a lower elevation. And that’s exactly what Razz is intending for me.

Ever since I started hurling up my lunch of tomato soup and a toasted sandwich outside, he’s been on high alert.

For the past six days, usually after a steaming hot bowl of dahl, he’s used a small pulse oximeter to measure mine and my friend Sana’s blood oxygen levels. And every night, we’ve both returned percentages between 90 and 95.

But now the number that flashes across the screen as the device clamped around my pointer finger beeps is enough to trigger another wave of nausea. 72 per cent. My blood oxygen saturation has dropped more than 18 points since my last reading 18 hours ago.

I’ve been plagued by unpleasant but manageable symptoms of altitude sickness for the past seven days — since we started our breathtaking hike (both literally and figuratively) from Llukla — home to the infamous “most dangerous airport in the world”, with a 527m runway right off a cliff edge — to EBC.

Often referred to as the roof of the world, Mt Everest isn’t actually visible from the Nepalese base camp (5364m above sea level) — despite the peak’s imposing height. But if you’re lucky, like we have been so far, there are multiple viewpoints along the well-trodden trail from which you can spot the mountain’s majestic summit.

An hour after my condition sent Razz sprinting for the satellite phone that connects him to his boss back in Kathmandu, and the evacuation teams servicing the Khumbu Pasang Lhamu rural municipality, I’ve stabilised.

I’m still feeling sick, but the cold I couldn’t seem to shake before has receded, and I’m not overrun with crippling exhaustion. And in yet another stroke of luck — or stubbornness — my blood oxygen levels begin to climb.

And the next morning, with the pulse oximeter’s blessing, so do we. The final push is fuelled by pure adrenaline. Nothing will motivate you more than the very fresh memory of the pain of dozens of blisters popping against the sweaty soles of your boots, or calves so stiff they’re like guitar strings ready to snap.

Another driving force is the weather. It’s -15C, but with the biting wind, which feels like it’s carving your face from stone with every gust, it feels even colder.

Finally, after kilometres of ice-blue glaciers, giant ridges and loose rocks underfoot, prayer flags rise like a finish line in the distance.

As I stand in the shadow of the world’s tallest mountain, feelings of exhaustion, pride and disbelief that I actually made it mix with a stream of tears.

I’ve dreamed of achieving this goal for years — not for a summit, but to test my limits and push beyond what is comfortable and easy. The Himalayas stripped away all my ego and expectation, replacing it with humility, acceptance of what is out of my control, and sheer will.

And as we begin our four-day descent, I realise this achievement is just the beginning. If I can pull this off, what else is on the horizon?