Trekking in Nepal

BEN STUBBS

Eco-trekking in Nepal reveals a rapidly changing world as well as those famed peaks

KATHMANDU, NEPAL–The Sagamartha National Park in northeastern Nepal is a wonderland of icy peaks, mountain streams, glacial lakes – and more than 140,000 kilograms of rubbish.

This section of the Himalayas is the gateway to Mt. Everest, Lhotse and Cho Oyu, which are just a few of the 8,000-metre mountains in this park at the top of the world. Since 1953, when New Zealand climber Sir Edmund Hillary conquered Everest, the Sagamartha National Park has gradually been pried open for tourism.

As our trekking group headed up the Dudh Kosi valley to Gokyo Ri 3,000 metres above, you could see how tourism was putting the world's most spectacular mountains under pressure.

Our guide Satish resembled a Nepalese Beatle, with a pudding bowl haircut and a pair of canary-yellow trekking pants. He was in charge of the 20 porters and Sherpas (ethnic mountain guides) who accompanied us. We set off from the tin-roofed hamlet of Lukla, past alpine forests and Buddhist prayer flags clinging to the rickety bridges that ford the milky river below. Along the four-hour walk, past grazing mountain goats and peeling golden birch trees, we saw cafés selling Mars bars and apple pies and riverside resorts offering log fires and hot showers on demand.

Setting up camp on an abandoned rice paddy under the shadows of the 6,367-metre Kusum Kanguru, Satish told us the trekking routes have changed dramatically since he started working as a guide 15 years ago. When he began his work in the mountains there were only a few modest tea houses.

That first evening of the trek, the temperature fell to minus-10 degrees in the tents, and there were a few complaints the next morning as aching knees and hips thawed on the climb to Namche Bazaar at 3,440 metres.

Satish explained the more eco-friendly camping treks like ours may be a little harder, but they have much less impact on the fragile environment. Kerosene was used to cook and portable dining and toilet facilities were taken with us in response to the growing number of tea houses and cafés that strip the area of its resources. We were still astounded each night as our cooks whipped up spaghetti bolognese, fried chicken and French toast on demand.

Satish explained that porters and cooks, who would otherwise be unemployed, have a steady source of income during the trekking season.

As we ascended from the rice fields and rivers of Ghat we climbed more than 600 metres in six hours to Namche Bazaar. Indiana Jones-style bridges swung in the breeze as teams of yaks and naks (female yaks) lumbered along the winding path with bells clanging. Along one particularly beautiful switchback we got our first glimpse of Everest, the snowy dome looking down like a lighthouse across the sea of fir trees below.

Namche has been a trading post for generations. The town lies in a valley connecting the Namche pass to Tibet. Today, Tibetans sell Chinese radios and trekking shoes on grubby tarps on the edge of town, while German bakeries, tourist hotels and Internet cafés inhabit the cobbled alleys of the settlement.

With a day to acclimatize to the thinning air, we visited the Namche Bazaar museum, which revealed the evolution of the region. There are now more than 25,000 trekkers in the National Park each year.

Across the top of the valley above Namche we saw the green bins and rubbish pits introduced in an effort to clean up the area.

The evidence of our passing was minimal as the trails became more deserted. Trekking through Phortse, Dole and Macherma, the porters cleaned the way like Hansel and Gretel picking up our crumbs. We wended through the valleys of birch trees past occasional musk deer and timid Impean pheasants hiding in the grass, looking like miniature peacocks with iridescent blue, green and black feathers.

After a fresh blanket of snow at Macherma we trekked across frozen streams with water still trickling beneath. As we climbed to 4,410 metres past Amadablam, the black earth was strewn with boulders and hardy shrubs, and the prayer flags on the ridges whipped in the wind.

At our final campsite at 4,700 metres, on the shores of Gokyo Lake, the evidence of tourism had thinned out to just a few huts burning yak dung. Satish had a huge grin as our weary group scrapped up the final hill to the look out at Gokyo Ri. From our 5,475-metre vantage point we could see unobstructed views of Everest and 360-degree mountain views that fell away to the Nasumbula glacier and the turquoise Gokyo Lakes that were ringed by bright red juniper bushes. A group of bandy-legged porters accompanied us up to the lookout and Satish told me this was what they all live for. "Trekking is my second wife," he said.

Heading back through the Dudh Kosi valley, the impact of tourism was visible again. Locally run tea houses, the odd hotel and garbage bin appeared. It didn't seem like such a big deal. But if the Sherpas and porters of the Sagamartha National Park are going to continue living this life, the responsibility really falls on the ordinary tourist to take nothing but photographs and leave nothing but footprints.

Ben Stubbs is a freelance writer based in Buenos Aires.