Free Bear Grylls by Bear Grylls

through these valleys and to be able to see the ‘Great Everest’, as one of them said,
‘in the flesh’. His eyes lit up with delight. We couldn’t resist staying a while, and soon found ourselves, at their invitation, dining like ‘kings’ in the company of
two fine ‘queens’.
    Whilst we sipped our tea at the end of the meal, the two of them became deep in conversation, arguing everything from the role of the Queen to the falling standards of British Rail sandwiches.
Only when a punch-up over which was the quickest way from Salisbury to Bodmin seemed imminent, did we think it might be time to leave. Greatly inspired by seeing such extraordinary people in such
an extraordinary place, we wished them luck and carried on – feeling much uplifted.
    From there we followed a yak-trail, until we came up over the lip of the valley. Ahead was a vast plain that stretched away into the distance, under the looming shadow of Mount Pokalde. We
walked all morning through this plain, past the remains of old stables that had been used to house yaks. Soon we began to turn north, towards the foot of the glacier, upon which Base Camp is
situated – still a day’s walk away.
    The path wound its way up through the mass of rocks that form the terminal moraine of the glacier. Buddhist shrines, called chortons, stand scattered along the route. Old prayer flags adorn
these, and flutter away incessantly, beckoning you on your way as you pass them. The going had become progressively slower these last few days, and the thinner air was very noticeable now. Mick and
I would stop every twenty minutes to rest, drink, and take the chance to savour the views of this barren land.
    At mid-afternoon, we found a small hut with some Nepali porters inside, and joined them in drinking some tea. We then set out to try and reach Lobuche, before nightfall came. As we came over the
moraine onto the glacier, we found ourselves in blazing late-afternoon sunshine. The main trail petered out into a small snow path, and the sun reflected strongly against our faces. A warm glow
came over me; we were nearing the end of this long walk through the valleys to Base Camp. It wasn’t far now. We’d be there tomorrow, God willing. We could just see in the distance,
where the mountains met the end of the glacier – the place where it would be.
    I wrote as we sat and rested:
    We now can’t see Everest at all, as it is hidden by the vast mountain of Nuptse, on our right. Even from Base Camp we won’t be able to see her – not until
     we’re 5,000 feet higher up, and well into the climb itself, will she reveal herself.
    Two hours later we reached Lobuche, a clearing along the glacier with a few huts that accommodated those heading up to Base Camp. It was a foul-smelling place. Because of the nonchalance that
the cold and altitude caused, people couldn’t be bothered to keep the area clean, and they spent most of their time in the huts, drinking and complaining about the bleak conditions.
    The loo here had degenerated into a seething mass of faeces, and nobody any longer even bothered to use it. Instead people crapped in any clear place they could find. The cold ensured that this
place was never far from the hut. That night as I sneaked out to try and go myself, negotiating a route through the stinking minefield, I realized that hygiene was now a distant blur of the
past.
    That evening, as we sat wrapped up in our down jackets, round the tin stove that burnt the dried yak dung, we talked with the Nepalese who were there. Soon the chang was produced, followed not
long after by an old guitar they had. None of them could play, and they were excited to hear that I did; that was until I actually did play, and then their enthusiasm somewhat waned. Well
‘American Pie’ isn’t easy with six strings, let alone four. The next day, though, they agreed to let me borrow the guitar for the time I would be up at Base Camp.
    As a lot of one’s time is spent there