The Wormlips Scrapbook

Here’s what I hate about traveling:

• Paying bills
• Paying two-and-a-half months’ worth of bills in advance with imaginary money
• Saying goodbye to people I love, which is what I did on my way home from the Sacramento Airport the night before last
• Saying goodbye when it’ll be a long separation
• Packing
• Unpacking in search of something I’ve forgotten whether or not I’ve packed
• Tying up loose ends at work
• Trying to divine which of the ends that are neatly bound now will unravel the moment I go
• Misplacing things
• Realizing that misplaced things are not misplaced but Truly Lost. I’m down three Canon lithium batteries, a box of family photos and a sponge.

It’s always like this right before I go on a long trip: I wonder why I ever thought the whole thing was such a great idea.

I really should be packing and paying bills and issuing invoices and putting work projects to bed. I’ll make this quick.

When I got back from Sacramento I noticed from my bedroom window a few glowing orange dots on a hillside across the Bay. Minutes later they had merged into a brilliant mass. Angel Island on fire.

Yesterday Anna and I took our final hike up Marin Avenue. It’s been over a year since we started our ritual slogging up that precipitous mile, an attempt to get my little legs ready for trekking. She gave me a bracelet so I can keep her with me in the Himalaya, and then she helped me pack.

Claudia came over tonight to wash away the gray. My hair is now very, very dark. I don’t recognize myself.

To kick off my chronicle of my Nepal adventure I’ll post the farewell letter I sent to a bunch of my friends this morning.

To my dear, tolerant friends who put up with me even though I hardly ever write or call and even though I am sending this as an impersonal, group e-mail,

It’s been over a year of waiting but the time is almost here. I’m scheduled to leave for Nepal tomorrow night. I was going to throw myself a farewell party but I forgot.

I’ll be gone till just before Thanksgiving, during which time I hope to take a one- or two-week trek through Annapurna Sanctuary, raft for three days down the Kali Gandaki (ominously named after the Hindu goddess of destruction), celebrate Kukur Tihar by helping decorate stray dogs in Kathmandu, hopefully explore Tibet, see the usual tourist sights in Kathmandu from temples to funeral pyres on the river, and who knows whatall.

I’m already homesick for you all, so if you have time and even the smallest sense of human decency, please write to me. I would love hearing from you. While I’m there, Internet access will be sporadic so if I don’t answer right away … well, you’re used to that…

Is anyone free to take me to the SF airport tomorrow (Wed. 10/15), leaving the East Bay 10 pm-ish? (Flight is around 1:00 am. Ugh.).

My mother just called to say goodbye. She sounded worried.

—“I may never see you again.”
—”Why not?” I wondered.
—“You might get eaten by yaks. Or yetis.  But really I’m not so much worried about what will eat you as I am that you will be eaten.

Within a few hours, I had plenty of rides to the airport and a couple dozen bon voyage messages. Once again, I am struck by what good friends I have. I pasted all their greetings into a big document that I’m going to print and bring with me. When I’m all by myself in a strange place it’ll remind me of my good fortune.

I got this e-mail from MoveOn:

“CNN is now reporting that up to 100,000 people have died from the cyclone that hit Burma. The scale of this disaster is hard to even imagine, and relief is urgently needed. So we wanted to pass along this email from our friends at Avaaz.org (the global online progressive group) letting you know how you can help.”

Trusting that MoveOn knows from a worthy organization, I donated through the Avaaz site: https://secure.avaaz.org/en/burma_cyclone/77.php

Speaking of south Asia, I’m a day away from making my plane reservations. I’ve finally chosen the whitewater trip I want to do and have booked space on it. Actually, I would’ve preferred to run a different river because this one is more dangerous than I’d like, but I couldn’t get other dates to fit my schedule.

Here’s some of what the out-of-print book White Water Nepal says about the trip:

“…Wild and unpopulated with some of the most pristine jungle scenery in Nepal and abundant wildlife… The valley narrows into a series of canyons, the river speeds up, and there are big rapids, one leading into another, almost continuously… This is a trip for expert rafters, and considering the wilderness nature of the terrain, it should not be underestimated.

“The Karnali isn’t a trip for softies: the two-day trek to the start is not hard but neither is it a Sunday afternoon walk… class 4 big white water rapids will work you hard… Dave Allardice says, ‘This is a remote region. A swim in the middle canyon could have serious consequences, as one huge powerful rapid leads straight into the next.’”

Why do I do these things? Don’t tell Mom.

This incredible film is the original 1953 documentary of the Hillary/Norgay team’s ascent of Everest. I hadn’t realized the expedition had been documented in movie form, and found out only by accident when I discovered it hiding on Side B of the Into the Thin Air of Everest DVD.

The beginning is inauspicious: a classic propaganda film [produced by Countryman Films] with waving Union Jacks and the newly coronated Queen Elizabeth buoyed down the avenue in a carriage borne by those fuzzy-topped marching dudes. Soon, though, patriotism fades to the back as the real story begins.

I think the most powerful thing is the pace. It’s slow. It’s tedious. It’s anything but romantic: the antithesis of its methamphetamine-driven counterpart, Into the Thin Air of Everest. In The Conquest of Everest, the interminable scenes of treacherous crawls over crevasses, vicious winds, backbreaking efforts to axe steps into the ice, life-threatening effects of altitude on breathing and movement … all capture the unrelenting brutality of the experience. Subsequent expeditions have been made much easier because of work done on this trip.

Oddly, I also understand a little more why these people put themselves in such danger and misery to climb a mountain … and the rewards afterward, for those who survive.

Another great thing about the movie is that every phase of the journey is chronicled, from the moment team members first meet to the preparation and testing of climbing equipment to the long trek to base camp to the actual ascent.

I recognized a lot of the scenes that have been excerpted for contemporary documentaries, and what was really fun was seeing the footage that those films leave on the cutting room floor: children and wives of porters watching as the men start up the trail, oceans of rhododendrons, close-ups of glacial rivers, passing flocks of birds… some of the best stuff, if you ask me.

The route they took to Everest Base Camp is roughly the same as what we’re planning if my goddamn foot gets better in the next few minutes, so that was of particular interest to me. Also amazing to see the base camp looking virginal, not yet littered with empty oxygen tanks and whoknowswhatall, as today’s guidebooks show.

Oh, and finally … the music: violins mark the touching moments, while deep brasses sound danger, like the tornado scene in The Wizard of Oz. Wonderful!

The unsung hero of this documentary (well, aside from all the Sherpa porters) is the filmmaker, Thomas Stobart, who — invisible to us — endured inhuman conditions, and whose work took patience, courage and a creative eye.