Crampons, self-preservation and other things I didn't pack

by Thiago Lopes (Brazil)

A leap into the unknown Brazil

The sherpa said that Yesterday a guide fell on the ice and broke his collarbone, being removed by a helicopter. I asked him how dumb I was, planning doing the same, without crampons. He lifted his shirt, showing long scars made by a rudimentary scalpel: "broken bones are not that bad, Ice can be really sharp you know?” Three weeks ago, back in the noisy comfort of Katmandu, crampons sounded more like a costume piece suggested by trekking agencies to neurotic westerners, to put them in the mood for adventure tourism. When back from the trek, the money saved with this fine piece of presumptuous thinking would give me a marvelous hot shower and the ultimate night of sleep in a good hotel outside the backpacker ghetto of Thamel. But, after 15 days of hiking into the Everest region, the truth about the passage began to show itself: I didn't want to get hit by a landslide or get lost on the ice if the footprint' s trail disappeared in the melting snow. Gliding against a stone wall or flying down from a cliff should not arouse any particular desire either. Altitude sickness was never mentioned as optional. I learned gradually: while going up to 5400m high, through the massive ice toboggan that gives access to the summit pass of Chola, you don't really want a lot of things to happen. That's why, at the crossing's eve, I took off my boot and put it on a long puddle of ice. I finger-flicked it gently. Really, it wouldn't make a newborn baby cry. The shoe slipped at a steady pace until it reached the edge. No friction, as in space. Curiosity was quite late. So, that day at the fork, I said goodbye to my mates and watched them shrink to the hill that gives access to the last village before Chola. We met at the trail, and quickly became a machine of mutual motivation and bargain for food and lodging, saving enough time and money to go beyond our individual expectations. Until that moment. But I got my Himalayan experience. Cute Nepalese kids asking for candies. Yak dumplings. Buddhist temples in the morning mist. Inoffensive and entertaining earthquakes. The sharp aggressiveness of the peaks softened by the snow, and all their sunrise and sunset versions. Brazil, USA, France and Turkey, crossing the Himalayas on 15 bucks a day and feeling like a Beatle: part of something unbelievable, even for a miracle. So, why did those mountains continue to hint wonders hidden behind my fears? When I reached the crew, their surprised looks asked for some explanation: “self-preservation doesn't work well in low oxygen environments”, I said. They laughed. Everybody was sincerely happy. No more Yoko for this band, I hoped. However, the next morning we trekked in silence. The slippery snow before the pass announced what was about to come. Then we saw the massive tong of solid water running through the rocks and spreading itself down to the cliff where everything ended, covering all the way to Chola. I was the last to step onto it. First, I did a kind of strange dance, then I hit the ground. One foot of distance between my legs was enough to start skating. I was going to die. Hell no, that would be stupid. I was gonna quit. I drew back and looked to my fellas ahead. They were moving almost in slow motion, at the speed of walking meditation. I was pretty sure that their awareness was at their highest. Well, I could do that too. But there was no barrier stopping me from slipping down the cliff. It was ridiculously dangerous. I could die. Or I could cross. Both possibilities existed in my head. But to be able to kill the idea of dying, I should cross the ice and not die. Or die. Otherwise, I would take both with me. Giving up wasn't an option: reasoning was broken. My friends were far ahead. The sun was high and the ice wet. Courage was melting and enlightenment wasn't coming. With a melancholic longing for asphalt texture, I stepped onto the ice again. And now, I had to run.