October 30, 2011
I am the master of the mountain. The champion of the climb. A goddess of the Himals. I knew I had earned each of these prestigious titles the moment a Nepali guide told me that I was "a strong sporting man", and loudly admired my ability "to eat like a starving Nepali boy". The poetry! He asked me what 'sporting' I did... And I put some serious thought into the best way to describe Dodgeball ("well the outfit is the most important part, but you see, you try to hit the other players with your balls...") Instead, I settled for the easy out, and told him that I was Arnold Schwarzenegger's personal trainer. The questions stopped there, and I continued on my merry way pretending that every step wasn't even more exhausting than the last. I'd sworn I wouldn't go all the way to Nepal to have someone else carry my bag, so with 15kg strapped on my back, I tried my damnedest to make the whole thing look easy. After the first five days it WAS easier, and I daresay extremely enjoyable, though this was apparently underscored by the fact that I eat like a pig. Ah, and I was still in better shape than Sander, which was very motivating.
The expansive Himalayas found us with no porter, no guide, no map ... sticking to the trip motto: "we'll deal with it when we get there". It's impossible to get lost when you have no destination, and you feel all the more clever for it. And besides, where's the fun in planning? This way when you turn up at the only accommodation for miles and find it full, you can just pretend you didn't want to stay there anyway. Very nonchalant. The only outline we'd given was to our loved ones, who were expecting our return to civilization within 8 or 10 days. So naturally, on day 13 I made emergency phone calls assuring everyone that (against better odds) Sander was NOT, in fact, dangling by backpack straps over a gaping canyon with hungry Sherpas sharpening yak-butter knives in the depths below. It was just too awesome to leave. And so, we remained trekkers without a plan and headed away from the only village large enough to have an international phone.
Every morning we struggled off of the wooden planks sometimes referred to as 'beds', at the leisurely hour of 7:00a.m. Some places were homestays and others were guesthouses, but every morning was perfect and crisp with the echo of woodfire stoves crackling under giant pots of masala tea. There is nothing more epic than brushing your teeth at dawn, watching the sun bathe 360 degrees of snow-capped mountains in golden light, and managing to avoid drooling toothpaste all over your hiking boots while you do it. As we ascended, fantastic emerald forests teeming with old world monkeys made way to rocky cliffsides perfectly covered in purple and blue wildflowers. By 4500m I was feeling inspired and completely invincible. So naturally, it snowed 15cm unexpectedly overnight and we woke to howling snow sweeping over the frigid lakes and through the yawning cracks in our goat-shack of a lodge. Someone who made 'plans' might have had a winter coat, but again, where's the fun in that? We're Canadians, after all. A skiff of snow is nothing! So instead of stay put, Sander squeezed into all three pairs of underwear at once and we hiked over the frozen Pass. No worse for wear, we survived the climb to continue bathing in shallow bowls of kettle-warmed water, playing 'walnut-rock' with screaming village kids, and sampling all kinds of dairy products lovingly produced by the illustrious yak. Finally, after 22 days we emerged from the wild and breached the Kathmandu city limits on foot. We had devoured the newly dedicated Tamang Heritage Trail, the charming Langtang Valley Trail, the super-climb to Gosaikund and the Laurabina La Pass, and finally the Helambu trail, which had dumped us unceremoniously back into the city. We have returned to hotel life, desperate for proper showers and falling out of clothes that no longer fit. I am now forced to go shopping: the master of the mountain could use a few new outfits.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Fitness First
October 3, 2011
When Sarah headed home in mid august to re-familiarize herself with her job, I was left in Prague with seven weeks to kill before we would reconvene, and begin our most strenuous traveling to date in the Nepalese Himalaya. I had seven weeks to get in shape.
I decided to start my preparations with the only type of hiking I was already trained for, hitchhiking. I made my way for the highway, and within 10 minutes, got my first ride. After getting lifts with a local landlord, a junk truck driver from Romania, a long haul milk trucker, a waitress, a pair of Swiss tourists, and a WWII ordinance surveyor who smoked two pipes simultaneously, I arrived in the Mecca of healthy eating and exercise that was Ravensburg, Germany. I quickly settled into a little cafe and sampled the local fare. Much to my dismay, I was presented a pint of beer and a plate of dense noodles fried with mounds of cheese and onions. My training had hit its first roadblock. Simone, my gracious host and friend since our travels in Thailand, explained that this would be temporary, and I could continue with my disciplined diet after a brief introduction to Germany. I waited for three days, sampling the high calorie local dishes and brews, biding my time to get back on the wagon. Eventually i realized she lied to me, and was forced to leave, lest I continue to add pounds to the body I would soon have to haul up the side of a mountain. I was now left with only 6 weeks to train, and a few extra kilos to loose. A manageable feat, but it would take some extra dedication.
I jumped on the first train out of Germany and headed for the two people nearby that I knew would be sympathetic to my cause. Ted and Becky (read back to blogs about Turkey if you have not met them yet) in Baden, Switzerland. Visiting hikers, in the most outdoorsy country in the world would have to get me back on track... Right?
I arrived in Baden to an email instructing me to meet them in Zurich, a short train ride away. Did they have some sort of training exercise planned? Perhaps some orienteering? I stowed my bag at the station and hopped on the train. I began to feel a bit suspicious as hoards of Swiss ruffians crowded onto the train with me, beers and vodka coolers in hand, and dressed up for Carnivalle. Was this a cruel jape? Would even Switzerland prove to best my utmost attempts to get in shape? Not wanting to insult my new friends I accepted offered refreshments, and wandered out of Zurich station into the city's biggest music festival, the Zurich Street Parade... My timing could not have been worse. Beer after beer was forced into my hand and urged down my throat, extinguishing my hope of redemption with each bittersweet and frosty swallow. The Swiss had so undermined my plans of exercise that walking from band to band wasn't needed as every group was staged on flatbed trucks that drove though the crowd, bringing the music to you. My inactivity had reached it's peak, and at this pace, I never would.
My next stop, again in Germany against my better judgement, was with another friend from our travels. We had travelled much of Laos with David and I knew if anyone could help with my dilemma, it would be him. A German punk rocker and student could not possibly lead me away from my path to fitness. It seems I was wrong. David and his bandmate Lars quickly conspired to liquor me up again. I was helpless against the joined forces of delicious local brewed beer and mornings of coffee and 'ketten fet' ('chain oil', a fitting moniker for a syrupy licorice flavored vodka filling Lars' freezer). I do, though, have to thank David for providing my first taste of training since Prague. Climbing The Dom, while a good start, barely scratched at the deficit of fitness I had found myself in over the last two weeks... But it was progress nonetheless.
After a quick stop in Amsterdam I was back on my way to the Orient to continue my training under the wise tutelage of my dear and unorthodox friend, Jack. To be certain, a black belt, professional teacher, living in the land of Kung-Fu would be the best person possible to see my training goals fulfilled. Oh, how wrong I was... As it turns out, even with the best intentions there is no way to ignore the lights, sounds and *ucking delicious smells of Seoul's night life. The routine that should have included 'high knees', 'jumping jacks' and 'deep lunges' quickly devolved into something resembling a day in the life of an alcoholic food critic. Major decisions of each day included which district of the megalopolis (known as Seoul) to discover and which fiery, meaty and delicious Korean dish to make our main course. Would it be the deceivingly named 'potato soup'(actually a pig spine stew with some potatoes in it), thick slices of uncured bacon on the BBQ, or fresh sashimi from the nearby fish markets? Soju became my protien shake, beer bottles my barbells, and as quickly as one hangover faded another was on it's way... Even days off included at least a few bottles of Soju with dinner to keep ourselves prepared for the inevitable return to excess the following day. Jack and I had not seen each other in over a year, but by the time I was heading to the airport to catch my flight to Delhi, our livers were completely caught up.
So here I sit halfway up the staircase at the hotel in Kathmandu, huffing and wondering exactly where i went wrong. I can only conclude that in the end it's all Sarah's fault.. She really should have known better than to leave me alone for 5 weeks with the likes of fantastic friends like Simone, Ted, Becky, David, and Jack.
When Sarah headed home in mid august to re-familiarize herself with her job, I was left in Prague with seven weeks to kill before we would reconvene, and begin our most strenuous traveling to date in the Nepalese Himalaya. I had seven weeks to get in shape.
I decided to start my preparations with the only type of hiking I was already trained for, hitchhiking. I made my way for the highway, and within 10 minutes, got my first ride. After getting lifts with a local landlord, a junk truck driver from Romania, a long haul milk trucker, a waitress, a pair of Swiss tourists, and a WWII ordinance surveyor who smoked two pipes simultaneously, I arrived in the Mecca of healthy eating and exercise that was Ravensburg, Germany. I quickly settled into a little cafe and sampled the local fare. Much to my dismay, I was presented a pint of beer and a plate of dense noodles fried with mounds of cheese and onions. My training had hit its first roadblock. Simone, my gracious host and friend since our travels in Thailand, explained that this would be temporary, and I could continue with my disciplined diet after a brief introduction to Germany. I waited for three days, sampling the high calorie local dishes and brews, biding my time to get back on the wagon. Eventually i realized she lied to me, and was forced to leave, lest I continue to add pounds to the body I would soon have to haul up the side of a mountain. I was now left with only 6 weeks to train, and a few extra kilos to loose. A manageable feat, but it would take some extra dedication.
I jumped on the first train out of Germany and headed for the two people nearby that I knew would be sympathetic to my cause. Ted and Becky (read back to blogs about Turkey if you have not met them yet) in Baden, Switzerland. Visiting hikers, in the most outdoorsy country in the world would have to get me back on track... Right?
I arrived in Baden to an email instructing me to meet them in Zurich, a short train ride away. Did they have some sort of training exercise planned? Perhaps some orienteering? I stowed my bag at the station and hopped on the train. I began to feel a bit suspicious as hoards of Swiss ruffians crowded onto the train with me, beers and vodka coolers in hand, and dressed up for Carnivalle. Was this a cruel jape? Would even Switzerland prove to best my utmost attempts to get in shape? Not wanting to insult my new friends I accepted offered refreshments, and wandered out of Zurich station into the city's biggest music festival, the Zurich Street Parade... My timing could not have been worse. Beer after beer was forced into my hand and urged down my throat, extinguishing my hope of redemption with each bittersweet and frosty swallow. The Swiss had so undermined my plans of exercise that walking from band to band wasn't needed as every group was staged on flatbed trucks that drove though the crowd, bringing the music to you. My inactivity had reached it's peak, and at this pace, I never would.
My next stop, again in Germany against my better judgement, was with another friend from our travels. We had travelled much of Laos with David and I knew if anyone could help with my dilemma, it would be him. A German punk rocker and student could not possibly lead me away from my path to fitness. It seems I was wrong. David and his bandmate Lars quickly conspired to liquor me up again. I was helpless against the joined forces of delicious local brewed beer and mornings of coffee and 'ketten fet' ('chain oil', a fitting moniker for a syrupy licorice flavored vodka filling Lars' freezer). I do, though, have to thank David for providing my first taste of training since Prague. Climbing The Dom, while a good start, barely scratched at the deficit of fitness I had found myself in over the last two weeks... But it was progress nonetheless.
After a quick stop in Amsterdam I was back on my way to the Orient to continue my training under the wise tutelage of my dear and unorthodox friend, Jack. To be certain, a black belt, professional teacher, living in the land of Kung-Fu would be the best person possible to see my training goals fulfilled. Oh, how wrong I was... As it turns out, even with the best intentions there is no way to ignore the lights, sounds and *ucking delicious smells of Seoul's night life. The routine that should have included 'high knees', 'jumping jacks' and 'deep lunges' quickly devolved into something resembling a day in the life of an alcoholic food critic. Major decisions of each day included which district of the megalopolis (known as Seoul) to discover and which fiery, meaty and delicious Korean dish to make our main course. Would it be the deceivingly named 'potato soup'(actually a pig spine stew with some potatoes in it), thick slices of uncured bacon on the BBQ, or fresh sashimi from the nearby fish markets? Soju became my protien shake, beer bottles my barbells, and as quickly as one hangover faded another was on it's way... Even days off included at least a few bottles of Soju with dinner to keep ourselves prepared for the inevitable return to excess the following day. Jack and I had not seen each other in over a year, but by the time I was heading to the airport to catch my flight to Delhi, our livers were completely caught up.
So here I sit halfway up the staircase at the hotel in Kathmandu, huffing and wondering exactly where i went wrong. I can only conclude that in the end it's all Sarah's fault.. She really should have known better than to leave me alone for 5 weeks with the likes of fantastic friends like Simone, Ted, Becky, David, and Jack.
Location:Kathmandu, Nepal
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