In Nepal, a Long, Cold Climb to

Inspiration

Gbenga Akinnagbe for The New York Times

Children enter Thorong Phedi, a village on the Annapurna Circuit in Nepal that was the
author’s last stop before crossing Thorong La.

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By GBENGA AKINNAGBE
Published: September 27, 2009

IT was 4 a.m. in mid-November, and I was stretching in a lodge in Thorong Phedi, Nepal,
at 14,500 feet, trying to pump warmth back into my body and get rid of a throbbing
headache brought on by dehydration and altitude sickness. Wolfing down chapati bread
with jam and a fried egg, I chased it with pints of hot tea and water, and started to feel
better. I knew I was going to need all my strength.

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Gbenga Akinnagbe for The New York Times

A glacier above Manang.

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Gbenga Akinnagbe for The New York Times

Trekkers cross a dried river bed.

Fifteen of us, along with porters and guides, were about to climb Thorong La, a pass
17,769 feet up in the Himalayas.

Thorong La is part of the Annapurna Circuit, a walk of more than 150 miles that
circumnavigates the Annupurna massif. I was there last year with my friend and agent,
Tim Stone, and his sister, Diana. Tim had proposed the trip as a celebration of his 60th
birthday. I accepted because it was a lot more exotic than the Baltimore area where I
grew up and where I got my big break on the HBO series “The Wire,” playing the
character Chris Partlow.

I had landed in Katmandu, Nepal’s capital, a week earlier and paid $12 to spend a night
in a hostel owned by a smooth talker named Mutki. He sold me an overpriced plane ticket
to the town where we would begin the trek. I was lucky to get out with my socks.

After an overnight stop in Pokhara, one of Nepal’s few large cities, I flew in an eight-seat
plane to Humde, a small airfield outside Manang, to meet Tim and Diana. We walked
about three hours to Manang (elevation 11,614 feet), where we spent two days to
acclimatize.

Manang is a tiny, self-sufficient town. Among its stone huts, mud mortar buildings,
bakeries and supply shops, we unexpectedly found three makeshift movie theaters, each
with hand-carved benches covered in animal skins. One theater had a projector and
charged 200 rupees (less than $3) with popcorn. Another just had a TV and was only 100
rupees. We watched two movies about horrific, historic climbing disasters.
From Manang, we headed for Yak Kharka (13,182 feet), a settlement of four inns and a
handful of shacks. A room at one of the inns cost about $5 a night, and had only a two-
inch mattress on a wooden platform. But it also had a spectacular view of the mountains.

That night I had trouble sleeping, a common occurrence at high altitudes. I was also kept
awake by the sound of Tim and Diana throwing up all night and running to the bathroom
to relieve diarrhea, two unforgiving symptoms of altitude sickness.

From Yak Kharka, it was a four-hour walk to Thorong Phedi, the final stop before
Thorong La. That night, Tim and I shared a small room in an inn made of stone and wood
that provided little warmth. Again I slept little.

Our guides had advised us to start early to avoid the high winds that can blow a person
down the mountain, so we started at 4:30 a.m. The world was dark except for the brilliant
white stars above and 20 or so tiny spots of light moving up the mountainside. Some
trekkers used lights attached to straps wrapped around their heads; others carried hand-
held flashlights. I had a hand-cranked flashlight that is popular among the locals.

Moving up the mountainside was laborious. The path was so steep we had to zigzag.
Bundled up but still cold, exhausted and with a 40-pound pack, I could only shuffle my
feet. At times, I was not sure if I was actually progressing. We moved about a half mile
an hour. I had not backpacked before, but I had been a wrestler in college and still
competed occasionally, yet I had never felt so mentally depleted.

Whenever I was short of breath, I hyperventilated and I slowed even more. I felt like the
dying son of Krypton, desperately waiting the return of the Earth’s sun to give me my
strength back. Adding to my distress, Tim and Diana teased me about my slow pace.

Where we were heading looked as if a desert with its dunes had been airlifted and put on
top of the mountains. Most of the paths were barely wide enough to put two feet down
next to each other.

After two hours, the sun began to rise, climbing the mountain, searching for a pass to
conquer and, like us, a quick way down. I looked around and calculated the vastness of
what we were attempting. Immediately, all my energy was zapped and I became dizzy, so
I concentrated on watching my feet.

The worst thing about the mountain was not the stinging cold or the steep climb in the
thinning oxygen and on the patches of dense ice. Those things were physical; they were
real. One can come to terms with the real and compensate.

No, the worst thing about that frozen beast was its false horizons. There is nothing as
cruel as false hope, and this mountain handed it out in liberal dosages. Every 10 minutes
it seemed as if the summit was only minutes away. The path ahead would crown, and
there seemed to be nothing beyond it but blue sky. In my brain, I knew it was not the end,
but my heart could not be reasoned with. Again and again, I cast my eyes down in order
to move on.

Brown and gray tundra abounded, and a bleak feeling overtook me like the cold daylight
washing over the mountains. As I reached the point I could not continue, we arrived at a
teahouse.

It was small, with barely enough space for the cast-iron stove. I was handed hot tea and
sipped cautiously.

I took off my cheap gloves and attempted to reanimate my fingers, bending them twice
every minute or so. I was determined to pump feeling back into them, but it was not
working.

I tried to speed the process by placing my fingers on my hot tin cup for a few seconds.
Something started to happen. I continued to flex them, and then place them on the sides
of the cup. I repeated this process until a rush of intense pain came stinging from the
inside of my fingers. The feeling was coming back.

After a 10-minute break, our group layered up and continued. My legs felt as if I had two
small children strapped to my thighs.

Sitting down for a break, I pulled out a one-liter bottle of water wedged in the webbing of
my backpack. Frozen solid. I could not believe it. But then again, I could. This explained
all the frozen water bottles we had passed, left by previous trekkers who had not realized
that would happen at the high altitude.

I pulled out a second bottle, the one I had been kicking myself for bringing along and
weighing me down. Still liquid. I drank, taking slow breaths.

Five hours after we started, we reached Thorong La. The vista was celestial. Cold,
powder blue sky and saw-toothed mountaintops are the only things to gaze upon that high
up.

The pass itself was just that — a 20-foot-wide opening. There was, of course, a teahouse.
Trianglular red, blue, yellow and orange prayer flags covered a small stone wall nearby,
their colors dulled from exposure to the elements.

I took out my video camera trying in vain to capture the immensity of our surroundings.
Tim yelled, “We did it!” and Diana spoke at length about the moment, but it all blended
into the general excitement. We drank it in until we were full, which did not take long.

The moment was overwhelming for some. Struck by the achievement, they sat quietly,
tears rolling down their faces.
I had my own impression. For the longest time, competition was the engine that allowed
me to succeed. It was a loud engine, however, and my mind was always running. But at
that moment, I felt a stillness and peace, and I realized that those could be a more
powerful inspiration.