At the feet of Kangchenjunga
Hikers find peace and calm on their trek to the base of Earth’s third-highest mountain
Our first view of Kangchenjunga through the cockpit of the Twin Otter was sobering. No pictures could have prepared us for the view.
At 8,586 metres, the world’s thirdhighest mountain dominated the northeastern horizon, turrets of rock and ice sweeping into the sky. It was hard to believe that only a 20-minute flight separated us from Nepal’s lowland plains, and even harder to imagine that we were about to enter this vertical world.
Kangchenjunga straddles the border of far eastern Nepal and the Indian state of Sikkim. With three satellite peaks over 8,000 metres and five major glacier systems, the mountain is so immense that it is visible from Darjeeling, the hill station of the British Raj. But, it remains one of the least-frequented areas of Nepal, attracting only two per cent of all foreign visitors in 2011.
Visiting this remote region involves a 200-kilometre, three-week trek, camping out each night due to the scarcity of “tea houses” en route. And because most of the journey runs crosswise over the ridges and valleys flowing from Kangchenjunga, it entails almost 15,000 metres of punishing ascent and descent on trails that to this day have never seen a wheel.
To prepare for this trek, I spent much of the winter reading accounts of early travellers who had visited the area. They included Indian pundits who first surveyed the high passes leading into Tibet; botanist Sir Joseph Hooker, who collected hundreds of unknown species of Himalayan flora in 1848; the satanist Aleister Crowley, who calmly listened to the death cries of four members of his party buried beneath an avalanche; and mountaineer Frank Smythe, a veteran of three prewar Everest expeditions. Yet despite many attempts, the first successful ascent did not occur until 1955, two years after Everest.
In comparing these Himalayan giants, Smythe wrote of Kangchenjunga: “in everything but actual height an infinitely more difficult mountain.”
Stepping onto the grass airstrip at Sukhetar, our sirdar (head guide) anxiously eyed the throng of villagers gathered to meet this weekly flight. The cook and five other staff had previously arrived by truck with food and camping equipment, but he was also responsible for hiring the local porters who would carry all of our gear. Nepal’s per capita income was $540 in 2011, so portering earns needed cash for impoverished villagers.
Each of our 10 porters (four of whom were women) would carry roughly 25 kilograms of baggage packed into dokas, or woven cane baskets. Using only a tumpline and shod in cheap sneakers, they would continually amaze us with their strength, stamina and good cheer.
It takes several days to establish a rhythm on any trek, but we were extremely fortunate because our Nepalese crew worked so well together.
Each morning, we were awoken at 6 a.m. to “bed tea” followed by a hearty breakfast in the mess tent.
We tried hard to complete two-thirds of each day’s walk in the mornings, stopping for a hot lunch prepared on kerosene stoves and served al fresco on tarpaulins beside the trail.
Because the porters set a blistering pace, normally our tents were already erected by the time we arrived at camp. Tea came next, perhaps a nap, followed by dinner and a discussion of the next day’s itinerary.
Because darkness falls early in these latitudes, normally we were in our sleeping bags by 7 p.m., stiff from exertion and grateful to rest.
Trails in this part of Nepal are rough and steep, with considerable height gain and loss each day, and the route is often spanned by suspension bridges and subject to occasional landslides. Beyond the village of Yamphudin, Day 4 of the trek, there are no permanently inhabited, year-round settlements, and we frequently camped beside small family farms.
Although this was our third trek in Nepal, never before had we encountered such astonishing transitions. On one memorable day, we began our trek serenaded by millions of insects calling from the thick jungle around us, then ascended 1,500 metres over five hours, climbing a slick, greasy trail into a Tolkien-like forest of larch and fir.
At day’s end, we emerged onto a high alpine pasture. The morning’s humidity had been replaced by sleet and snow squalls, and our campsite atop the ridge was littered with yak droppings. But I will never forget the mist clearing to reveal the sculpted peak of Jannu (7,710 metres), gleaming white from a dusting of newly fallen snow.
That campsite marked the final ridge to be overcome before dropping down into the valley of the Simbua Khola, which leads to Kangchenjunga’s southern base camp.
We spent five days ascending this valley, including two nights acclimatization at Tseram, before continuing to our high point at Oktang (4,778 metres). The trail ends here at a small Buddhist chorten, or shrine, draped in prayer flags to honour the mountain gods.
At this altitude, we were higher than most peaks in the Canadian Rockies but at only the base of this magnificent mountain. High above us the stupendous southwest face of Kangchenjunga towered remote and unattainable, while the Yalung glacier flowed in a grey river of ice and mud at our side.
It was calm and beautiful, and the finest reward we could have asked for, on this, Nepal’s most wonderful of treks.