Our objective loomed above us, dominating the skyline, beckoning Richard and I nearer. At 6130 meters (20, 112 feet) Stok Kangri was the highest peak in the area. According to the Indian Mountaineering Federation our target was merely a high altitude ‘walk in the park.’ Our journey began in the town of Stok at an elevation of 3600 meters. Feeling confident, fit and limber we shunned the use of donkeys and packhorses and starting walking up.
And up. And up. And up.
Unbeknownst to me, the effects of altitude had started to set. As well, with my 25kg backpack progress was slow, incredibly slow. A supposed 4-hour journey turned into a 7-hour affair. We reached Mankarno at 4400 meters, exhausted. An acclimatization camp was set up and a tasteless meal of soggy rice and dhal sent me into a deep, yet restless slumber.
I awoke in my ‘German made’ Indian tent and set myself a goal. I was determined to eat at least a kilogram of food. Surely carrying 24kg, instead of 25kg would give my body the relief it so desperately wanted. I scoured the landscape looking for a donkey, a pony, a packhorse or porter. Anything, I said to myself, that would make the journey to base camp less arduous. Alas, it would be me, myself and I that would carry my bag to base camp at 5000 meters (16, 400 feet).
I felt pathetic.
Walking one hundred meters took about an hour, but I had finally made it to base camp. I hadn’t lost site of our goal of summiting Stok Kangri. We set up our tent and decided on a well-deserved rest day.
Tomorrow we said, we would get to the top. Tomorrow.
A constant, persistent headache developed. My bowels and stomach felt like erupting – and did. My appetite suffered. And lastly, my emotions became more erratic than a menopausal woman’s. General knowledge of Acute Mountain Sickness (AMS) dictates that if one develops symptoms of AMS than the only way to relieve it is to descend, descend, descend. But I wasn’t prepared to do that. I popped another Diamox, chugged three litres of water and called it a night. Tomorrow was summit day, and come hell or high water I was getting to the top.
Or so I thought.
I woke up the next morning feeling equally as poorly as the night before. My headache greeted me. My bowels turned inside out. And I was angry. I threw rocks with all my might into a stream, and that made me angry because by the time I was finished I was out of breath. I ran to the shit box and that made me angry, because yet again, I was breathless. I ascended to 5100 meters ‘just to check’ and thought I was about to puke. I came down from the pass even angrier. Richard started planning his summit attempt and that made me filled with rage. My emotions were bewildering me. I didn’t know how to deal with my anger, so I cried, feeling pathetic, alone in my tent. And that too, made me angry.
I didn’t think I had an ego. At least if I do, it’s normally in check, but not at 16, 400 feet. Altitude is a funny, funny game. I was fit. I was healthy. I had the will, the talent and the means, although, my headache persisted. The only obstacle I had was that invisible enemy – altitude. Something that even experts don’t quite understand. With my safety in mind I opted out of the summit attempt, and simultaneously squashed any remaining ego I might have had. Richard made the summit of Stok Kangri. I was still angry. I had judged my self-worth on a mountain and was quelled by uncontrollable circumstances. I was acting bizarre and erratic, not my normal self. I felt defeated and pathetic. It was the altitude. Poor Richard.
I packed up my tent, my 25kg bag, and my ego and put them on a packhorse, leaving Stok Kangri behind. Another time, another time.
- Tossed Sallard-
