The Dirtbag Diaries: My Shorts
I'm going to be submitting this to a climbing podcast who has listeners write in with stories they call "The Shorts". I'd love to get some feedback before I do so! Grammar, spelling, content, or any advice is appreciated.
I wonder sometimes what radically different path my life would be on if I wouldn’t have fallen in love with climbing. What if I wouldn’t have moved from the north woods of Michigan to Colorado? To paraphrase Lionel Terray, the great French Alpinist: I would no longer identify myself as a “conquistador of the useless.”
Rock climbing may seem useless through a shallow point of view. To scramble up a mountain, climb long committing trad routes, or claw at a boulder problem until days end. These activities certainly don’t make any money. In fact, hinder many from doing so. But for those involved in rock climbing and adventure sports alike must agree; some sort of mental gain is achieved through interacting with nature in such a profound way.
My passion for rock climbing has compelled me to travel extensively through Asia, live in the bed of my truck, and put myself in positions of desperation all for the name of adventure. On this journey I’ve been dedicated to for the last four years I’ve met some of the most interesting people and seen some of the wildest places on the planet.
On one occasion, my desire to explore the unknown brought me to a remote corner of Nepal with a man from England named Phillip Debejer, a very achieved mountaineer and international guide. We hired a porter by the name of Pasang Sherpa who would help us navigate the trade routes to the base of Bokta Peak, a seldom climbed 6000 meter peak near the infamous 8000 meter mountain, Kanchenjunga.
For the following two weeks we trekked through small villages, staying at local houses; every one of which was owned by someone who Pasang claimed to be brothers with. To bring us to the base of Bokta peak we were faced with passing over Mirgin La pass. At 4500 meters , the pass seemed to pose no threat.
Which held true, until the miles of waste deep post-holing were encountered and the bivvies in snow storms were endured while trying to ration our food supplies for the anticipated peak to climb. Our expected one day crossing of the pass turned into two, and two days turned into three. All the while we were very unsure whether each step was bringing us to safety or deeper into no man’s land. Our porter, and local guide who spoke little english resorted to pointing in general directions repeatedly instructing us to go “inside”. I am still unsure how “inside” translated in his head. I find it more likely that he was as lost as we were.
Fortunately we navigated our way to the top of the pass, then descended the other side to a village. Only to find it was a ghost town. It’s residents of which were seasonal nomads, who had brought their grazing yaks elsewhere.
At this point of despair I suggested we abandon Bokta Peak and pig out on the rations we had been carrying around. Phil, on the other hand was still up for enduring whatever stood before him and the summit.
Pasang had been sustaining himself for the last three days mostly on a bag of flour he would mix with snow. On top of malnourished exhaustion he had been sporting Nike sneakers wrapped in plastic bags, rather than mountaineering boots to combat the long days of deep post-holing in snow. As you can imagine Pasang was less than pleased by our current situation.
I would think around this time the $15 per day we were paying him was beginning to seem like rather meager compensation. He insisted we continue to the next village that could possibly have inhabitants. With an empty stomach as well, I wholeheartedly agreed. After three more hours on the trail I came across a stand alone hut. My hunger grew ten fold when I saw smoke billowing from the chimney. With new found vigor from this glorious sight Pasang came sprinting passed me shouting, “Three days, no eating, no drinking, no good! Very lucky, very lucky!”
The ensuing meal was the most delicious feast of Nepali cuisine I had on that trip. With the comforts of a home before me, I decided that I had reached my summit. I had achieved that transcendent feeling of peace after everything you have has been devoted to a goal. Consequently I put my ego aside and resigned from pushing on to summit Bokta Peak. Phil and I parted ways as he went on to give the mountain a solo attempt.
I was under the impression that my stepping down from the summit meant my struggles were over. I thought I was on the downward slopes back to the city we had started walking from three long weeks ago. The Himalayan range had other plans.
I was under the impression the next day was going to be a casual 10 miles or so. The first unanticipated obstacle in those 10 miles, that had me cursing the mountains, was a particularly steep Himalayan foothill. As I grew nearer the next village, the trail cut through a farmer’s property.
With high hopes of the day coming to an end I heard the clanging of a cow bell behind me, and growing nearer. As I turned around I saw a bull in full charge after me. With the strength only found through fear of self-preservation my wobbly legs surged into action and carried me away from the bull as I jumped down a rice terrace step.
My escape had diverted me from the path I was following. In hopes of finding it on the other side of the bull’s territory, I followed the perimeter of the farm. After thirty minutes or so of searching for the trail I came to the edge of a steep valley. A river flowed through the bottom of the valley, with a clear cut trail on it’s other side! Desperate to get to that trail, I decided to search out a way down this valley off trail. The easy going terrain at the top did not last long. Steep hillside turned into straight up technical dirt and tree roots. At one point I had to drop my back pack down below to allow me to pull the moves on sapling trees, and roots while smearing my feet on dirt and loose rocks.
Miraculously I reached the bottom of the valley in one piece. Covered in dirt, I must have resembled Charlie Brown’s friend Pig Pen, surrounded by a perpetual dust cloud. Another hour or so of hiking finally brought me to a village where I could eat and rest.
After the trials I had been put through I rewarded myself with a warranted rest day. So I procrastinated whatever adventure may lie next on the trail and spent the day talking with locals, reading, and drinking Everest beer. Don’t get too excited, it’s just your typical lager.
As each day brought me closer to a bus station I felt more at peace with these obstacles I was being forced into. The days following my encounter with the bull, proved to be no more straight forward. I spent hours meandering the maze of trails, and back tracking in attempt to find the correct village on route. In my wanderings I stumbled upon a gorgeous waterfall pool. In the heat of the day I was nearly obligated to skinny dip in the icy water. Feeling refreshed and ready for more rambling in foreign lands, I pushed on and on and on, until I arrived in Taplejung, Nepal. From here I could jump on a bus bound for the city.
Back in Kathmandu I found Phil in an Internet Cafe with a smile under his thick bear. With a tone of content and pride he calmly declared, “I sent it”. The man is a modest, badass mountaineer who accomplishes something like this and walks away like nothing happened.
Experiences like this are held so dear to me. They are what makes all the effort I apply to venturing into the unknown worth it and prepare me to except bigger and more demanding attempts. My globe trotting and dirt bagging is about to reach yet another culmination this year. I’ve bought a one way ticket to South America to find my next summit, whether it be at the top of a mountain or the internal sense of accomplishment.
