In my travels almost always mountains. And in my memories, last time, emerge over the experiences as forcefully to the landscape. Therefore Ethiopia Simien; Patagonia, the Torres del Paine; Uganda, the elusive chain Ruwenzori; Mexico, the “Popo” and Tanzania Kilimanjaro; Kenya, the evocative hills Ngong and Tibet, the Everest. In I maleta a slight viajan, odds with the space, some old hiking boots, even for a beach holiday in Tenerife (Temptation Teide was too strong). Turning your back on a mountain you'd climb is one of the most bitter feelings that one can experience on a trip. If it's lack of fitness, at least you have the moral alibi, but if it is only a matter of time, the frustration you attached too many hours.
On Everest, at least, there was no doubt. He fought for come close as possible to Qomolangma, the mother goddess of the mountains. That was my desire: the gift of a sunset without clouds, a sunrise eventful, few minutes of ecstasy in front of the holy mole, satisfaction of thinking "I can get here, and so far I've come ".
Turning your back on a mountain you'd climb is one of the most bitter feelings that one can experience on a trip
That had traveled to Rongbuk, on the north side of the great mountain, Tibetan side in huge massif. The time was not the most appropriate, still in monsoon season, to ensure a clear day, but instead the monastery where we spent the night (which claims to be the highest located, 5.000 meters, the planet), was much less crowded. And that uncertainty accompanied me throughout the journey, like the plot line of a suspense story.
Getting here has cost us a flight from Spain with a stopover in Bangkok and another from Kathmandu to Lhasa. And, from the capital of Tibet, several days of road on "friendship highway". Just put one foot in Rongbuk we started walking toward the base camp, now almost expeditions orphan, where you can also get in a horse-drawn carriages (option for the majority who chose that afternoon few dared to approach the base camp).
In these limits of the human and the supernatural, life and death take on a different meaning until they almost become twins, sin drama ni aspavientos
We are fortunate to enjoy, for a long time, one of the most intense of my life, North Face of Everest, just a few meters from the place that you can cross without corresponding (and expensive) Chinese government permits. Beside the stone inscription that recalls the disappearance of Mallory and Irvine in 1924, they walked resolved to the top of Everest and fog engulfed them completely, feeding the greatest mystery in the history of mountaineering. Were they the first?
How I wished to continue walking uphill! Feel the earth beneath my feet Everest, go into that glacier that ignited my imagination teen, that the names of Mallory agigantaba, Messner the Buhl, tragedy heroes capable of defying the gods who dwell in the highest mountains of the earth. In these limits of the human and the supernatural, life and death take on a different meaning (have had occasion to check a few days ago with the failed rescue Spanish mountaineer Juanjo Garra in Dhaulagiri) almost to twinning. That dramas, no fuss, as naturally assimilate not many feet below. The life you want to live off the life we ??have to live. No color.
The seconds stretched to disappear into the wonderful routine, routine Bell, to watch night fall over the roof of the world
Back in Rongbuk, aspiration not sleep, but being. The sunset lights up the north face of Everest, crowned by the usual plume of clouds, as if someone was poking a hot coal in his gut. Not cold, the only siento it. The seconds stretched to disappear into the wonderful routine, routine Bell, to watch night fall over the roof of the world. The shadows down the slopes of Rongbuk jealous of his treasure, soon covering with a cloak of darkness the valley. We few who have gone out to dismiss the day by the Qomolangma, but silence is absolute. Behind us, a mountain of empty beer bottles, perfectly clustered, expect the truck down to civilization. It is actually a pinch of dream meantime.
The light gradually stretches Everest, so imposing presence that forces you to mute, recreándote in shade
The night is long, uncomfortable, cold, but unforgettable. I can barely sleep an hour. Sausage in the bag, read the book Conrad Anker on the discovery of Mallory's body in the dim light of a lantern. After seven hours of torture it is time to sign the armistice with my vertebrae. I get up and go outside. It's dawn and the temperature is low, but the show is worth the effort. The light gradually stretches Everest, so imposing presence that forces you to mute, recreándote in shade: in the cut, at the summit, in the second step, in the steep snow and rock cut. So spend an hour in front of the giant, oblivious to the comings and goings of the few guests who come to empty the bladder, to brush their teeth, to try to rebuild the bones. And there are face to face with Mount Everest. Next to nothing. Blessed routine.
