I stood at the greatest height I’d ever been. At 4700m elevation, oxygen levels are about 11% – half that at sea level. In exchange for the altitude? Stunning mountain vistas straight out of an Attenborough documentary. White-capped summits, rugged trails, exposed slopes and icy glacial rivers. In eleven days on the Annapurna Circuit, we’d steadily climbed from balmy, waterfall-laden jungle to treeless cliffsides that stunned my mind around every bend.
Getting my girlfriend Ellie here was an achievement in itself. She preferred to swim or sunbathe, and a trek through the Nepalese mountains was about as far from that as we could get. To her credit, I’d only been labelled a ‘terrible girlfriend’ for this trip choice twice, and not even the blisters on her feet could deny the beauty of the views.
After several rounds of cards and a mug of hot ginger tea, it was time to hit the hay early – we needed to be up at 3am to begin the gruelling climb to Thorong La Pass, the highest point of the trek. Once we’d reached the iconic prayer flags of the Pass, we would commence an even more challenging descent. We went to bed fully geared but for our boots, eager to recharge before the day ahead.
I was jolted awake as Ellie hurtled out the cabin door into the night. I only needed to hear what was happening to know – all our diligence with purified water and guide-recommended meals hadn’t been enough. She spilled her guts into the freezing air. I offered what limited comfort I could. Shortly, we returned to bed, Ellie insisted the one round was all she needed to feel better.
An hour later and she was out the door again, and again. Both ends now, and the taps too frozen to wash anything away. I sought out our trek leader in concern, Ellie had conceded she couldn’t see herself walking 20 steps, let alone 20 steep kilometres.
Our guide employed the Nepalese attitude of “jam jam” (let’s go, let’s go) – nothing like forcing the vomiting girl to slurp some hot water and march on the spot to decide if she’s capable of a trek up the mountainside. Long story short, she was not. Our group delayed departure to give us the best chance of coming along, but by then I’d begun to fear Ellie might become hypothermic from all the trips outside.
We couldn’t afford to stay at this altitude with Ellie so sick. Three options to get down from the mountain were proposed. The first two choices sounded like a nightmare for someone struggling to stand – several hours on foot or horseback to the nearest town with road access, then many more hours in a Jeep to access medical care that we couldn’t wait for. Our third and final choice was to be flown off the mountain face by a Himalayan rescue helicopter.
Our group departed, leaving us with a porter and the youngest of the assistant guides. I watched with unease as the inexperienced guide with broken English in charge of organising our rescue, gestured to his dying phone battery. An ever-growing mound of scratchy blankets was all that could be seen of Ellie.
Hours later, having painstakingly brought Ellie a short distance up the slope to a landing pad, a small white and red helicopter lowered into the dust. Our guide and porter took selfies with the pilot as I bundled my girlfriend into the passenger seat. What then followed was my first, and I pray my last, helicopter ride. In the thinnest atmosphere on Earth, the constant rattle of the windows as we crested over countless snowy summits set my teeth on edge, although I could still marvel at this unrivalled view of the peaks. When we finally landed in Kathmandu, I desperately stripped layers of clothing off in the humidity. An ambulance met us at the airport and careened down the narrow city roads to a small local hospital. After even more time spent convincing Ellie it would be safe to have an IV line put in, I crashed on a fold out mattress on her floor.
The following morning, Ellie was well on the mend, while my stomach had begun a slow and inevitable turn for the worst. By that afternoon I couldn’t stop gagging and all the fluids had fled my body. I too had the almighty IV inserted, and even underwent an abdominal ultrasound. I had my parents back home in stitches when I asked if urine samples needed to be peed into the cup or could be scooped from the toilet bowl.
Another night later, two drained and battle-worn Aussie women trudged into a hostel, hugged, and collapsed into bed for the sweetest sleep of their lives.
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