It's Not The Altitude; It's The Attitude

by Guest Writer: Darsha Dodge

“You’re…what?”
“I’m going to Everest.”

“When?”

“Next month.”

“I know you’re serious, but…you’re serious?”

“Yes.”

“With who?”

“Alone.”

“Well…uh…okay then.”

 

I had this conversation at least 7 times in mid-January of this year when I announced that I’d be taking a month off of work to make the trek to Everest Base Camp in Nepal. At first, it was a pipe-dream, a delusion, and then, as if God was clearing the path for me, everything fell into place. I had the money – just enough to cover my expenses for the trip and keep my bills afloat while abroad – and our Gift Shop was undergoing a remodel, meaning we were encouraged to take vacation time in order to keep our sanity. The only thing left was organizing my academics for those few weeks, and in an unlikely twist of events, the only professor whose classwork I’d be missing just so happened to have traveled to Nepal previously, fallen in love with it, and agreed to allow me to make up nearly a months’ worth of work so that I could go. That was the last piece to fall into place. I had the tickets booked – with time in New York City and Dubai along the way – the guide reserved, and my duffle bag packed (and let me tell you, that was an adventure in and of itself!).

On February 17^th, I stopped by work to hug everyone goodbye – including the person who unwittingly pushed me into taking time off – got in my car, and drove 6 hours to Denver to catch my midnight flight to New York. I spent my 12-hour layover riding the metro, searching for a mysterious Staten Island pizza joint, and walking around in the cold but sunny Central Park. Late that evening, I boarded a flying city (seriously, Emirates A380 Airbuses are m-a-s-s-i-v-e) bound for the United Arab Emirates, turned my music up, and spent 13 hours in the most luxurious economy-class flight cabin known to man. We landed in Dubai around 2 the next afternoon, where I promptly transited through UAE Customs (a terrifying experience), and spent the next several hours wandering around this east-meets-west, old-meets-modern city, where the worlds’ tallest building dominates the skyline just miles from crowded and dusty streets packed with vendors trying to make enough to survive. I also got a first hand look at Jumeirah Beach (pictured below). 

As a white woman who speaks only a few sentences of basic Arabic, I have never felt safer in a foreign city. I took a taxi to the beach, where the sun was starting to set the sky ablaze behind the worlds’ only 7-star hotel (the Burj al Arab), and walked in the cool sand while the azure water lapped at the bottom of my jeans. I walked down the pathway of Dubai’s marina, a towering metropolis dotted with elegant restaurants and expensive high-rise housing, and stopped to eat a fancy waffle (didn’t know there was such a thing) while listening to the call of prayer coming from a decadent mosque just across the canal from me. Here I was, almost 22, standing alone in a foreign city, in a part of the world where “white women just don’t go,” and I was comfortable. 

There is a certain magic, I’ve found, in being completely alone in a foreign country. There's a certain sense of responsibility that comes with the freedom of being who and whatever you want. But the adventure hadn’t even really begun yet, and I boarded an early morning flight to the bustling Nepali capital of Kathmandu, where my trek was to begin.

In the west, we have rules. Traffic laws. Social norms. Things like, “don’t pass people on the wrong side of the road while driving well-over the speed limit,” and “personal space is an important thing.” Nepali’s don’t follow this way of thinking. After 45 minutes of arguing my way through customs (“You here for trekking, go this line.” “You need this paper, go find.” “Where you from? Ah, American…woman…alone…interesting.”), I was thrust violently into a throng of people struggling to find their rides. After spotting an adorably short Nepali man holding a sign with my name and waving excitedly, I put on my sunglasses in the coolest way possible (I decided to channel my inner Indiana Jones for this adventure) and made my way over to him. This was Min, my guide, who would become a close friend and father-like figure over the coming weeks. We made our way to an old Suzuki taxi, where the driver slammed on the gas and began weaving erratically through Kathmandu traffic (which includes cars, pedestrians, motorcycles, dogs, and the occasional cow), dropping us off at our hotel and proving that I’ve never been happier to see solid ground. A few quick introductions, safety briefings, and gear runs, and I collapsed into bed with the windows open and the unrelenting noise of the backpackers’ district of Thamel singing me to sleep.

6 am we were up, dressed, packed, and headed off to the airport to catch a mountain flight to Lukla (9,318 ft.), the worlds’ most dangerous airport, where the long trek to EBC begins. After a lax security check and some hardboiled eggs for breakfast, Min and I pushed our way into the waiting area, where I met Blaine, a friendly and talkative forty-something man from Alaska, who had only intended on trekking to Namche Bazaar with us and ended up staying the entire trek. We boarded a cramped prop plane (where I elbowed my way past some Swedes for a left-side seat – where the Himalayan views are!) and took off on the bumpiest 45-minute flight that exists in the world today…a flight that ends with 1000 feet of landing strip that slopes upward drastically. This is where our adventure was to begin.

Trains of yaks wearing bells passed us on the narrow and steep cobbled path, and we faced our fears crossing suspension bridges swinging over deep drops in the Dudh Koshi (Milk River). We overnighted in Phakding (8,690 ft.), where we made friends with a British couple, Paul and Faye, who schooled us in pool, and met a Scottish fellow named Christopher who would become near and dear to me by the end of the trip. The next day brought a grueling uphill climb to Namche Bazaar (11,287 ft.), the Sherpa capital, where we had stunning views of Thamserku and the Kongde Range…views we paid for with a steep climb to our acclimatization point…or really anywhere we wanted to go in the village! Our second day in Namche meant we got our first view of Everest, Ama Dablam, and Nuptse – after an “easy uphill walk” to the Everest View Hotel. We met up with many of the other teams who were on their way to various destinations in the Himalayas, enjoyed some coffee, and spent the evening watching my favorite climbing movie (“Everest,” released in 2005) and eating popcorn. From Namche, we pushed onward to Tengboche (12,684 ft.), site of the famous Tengboche Monastery, where we were fortunate enough to witness the prayer chants for Tibetan New Year. I also, in traditional Darsha-fashion, made friends with the local street dogs. 

It was a cold night, but being able to see the summit of Mount Everest from my window made it all worth it. We climbed on to Dingboche (14,271 ft.), passing our Scottish friend along the way, and spent that evening chatting with Nicole, a fun and adventurous Aussie who was going guide-less to Base Camp. Skipping our second acclimatization day in favor of using it as a rest day on the descent, we continued on to Lobuche (16,177 feet), where I fell seriously ill almost immediately. I spent several hours lying face down in my bed, every movement a pain, stomach doing backflips, head pounding, ears ringing, and unable to even walk straight. Blaine, Min, and Nicole sat me in front of the wood stove, wrapped me in blankets, brought me hot tea, and sent for a doctor from the Pyramid Research Center just outside of Lobuche. It was the only time in my life that a group of men were making decisions about my health that I was not involved in – and the only word I understood of the entire hushed conversation was “helicopter.” The doctor stayed the night with us, insisting I be on oxygen (which I refused, as it would be impossible to acclimatize higher if I took it), and by the next morning, I was almost completely back to normal. To Min’s surprise, we pushed higher to Gorak Shep (16,962 ft.) and then made the summit of Kala Patthar (18,193 ft.) – the highest altitude we would reach during our ascent! I won’t say that I didn’t cry on the ascent and descent – I was unbelievably exhausted and mildly afraid my brain would swell up from cerebral edema – but the view was undoubtedly worth it, even though my nice porter kid kept looking at me like I was a sad puppy. 

We spent the night on the glacier in Gorak Shep, where other teams were also at the same level of “done” that we were; no one could eat solid food, hold their head up for long, or carry on a conversation for more than a few seconds. Early the next morning, after a night spent shivering in 4 layers of clothing, three pairs of socks, a sleeping bag, and two yak wool blankets, we headed out for the pinnacle of our adventure – the reason we were all here – Everest Base Camp. My knees were swollen up like cantaloupes, my feet were covered thickly in rough callouses, and it was the single most exciting morning of my life! We walked, climbed, and trudged on for a couple of hours before descending sharply out onto a rocky moraine perched in front of a wide field of blue glacial ice – the Khumbu Ice Fall – undoubtedly the most dangerous part of climbing Mount Everest, and the most recognizable feature of Everest Base Camp. Millions of tons of sparkling glacial ice cracking and yawning behind us, Blaine and I skipped excitedly out to the piles of rocks wrapped in prayer flags, surrounded by mementos, urns, and rocks with messages to deceased loved ones written on them. There were only a few bright orange tents – belonging to the Spanish climbing expedition – as the day we reached Base Camp was the first official day of climbing season, and most teams would be arriving soon. We took turns photographing each other, leaving mementos we brought, listening to Min whistle and sing in Nepali, and staring in awe at the feat we’d just completed. Everest Base Camp, at 17,594 feet, was our final destination. This was what we’d slogged on for, what we hadn’t showered in days for, what we’d been eating rice and soup for.

As we stood in the shadow of these giants, I couldn’t help but think of the immensity of what I’d just done. 8 years prior, I’d been given a set of Tibetan prayer flags, which I’d kept in every room I’d lived in since…and now here I was, standing at the base of Chomolungma – the Tibetan name for Mount Everest (meaning “Mother of the Earth”) surrounded by them. I thought about my favorite climber – Scott Fischer – who died in the 1996 disaster, and who stood in much the same spot I was at some point. Here I was, an androgynous blob of polar fleece, khaki, and exhaustion, and I’d never felt like such a strong woman. I was 21, standing at the base of the world’s tallest mountain after spending nearly two weeks trekking through the remote Solukhumbu region of Nepal, having not showered in days, and having nearly been forced to descend due to altitude sickness. I felt strong. I felt invincible. I felt the prayers and well-wishes of the amazing people who supported me during my journey. 

Something about me in that moment - standing in the vicious Himalayan sun, staring up through the ice fall – something changed. I was at the bottom of the top of the world, and everything negative that I’d ever thought about myself – about being too much or not being enough, about my abilities or lack thereof – I left it there at the base of that mountain. We strolled back into Lukla a few days later, caught our plane back to Kathmandu, and spend our final night with the great people that we’d met during our travels. Min hugged us both, put on his sunglasses, shouldered his massive pack, and strolled off casually into the chaos of Kathmandu. Blaine left that evening, and after a fun night with Christopher and our new Austrian friend (Anita) involving delicious Nepali rum and an interesting rice-based alcohol (which was probably paint thinner passed off as consumable) I boarded my flight back towards reality.

It seems like a lifetime ago that I was standing there on that glacier in the middle-of-nowhere Nepal, staring up at the jagged peaks ringing us, watching Blaine leave a collection of rocks for his aging mother, listening to the thunderous crack of avalanches raining down around us. Sometimes, when I’m lying in my warm bed at night, I can still smell the wood-burning stoves that definitely saved our toes from certain frostbite, I can still hear the chime of the bells from the yak trains carrying supplies up and down the mountain, and I can still feel the unrelenting wind that chapped and cracked our sensitive skin. My map of the region that I haggled for in Namche hangs on the wall, along with my trekking permit, a certificate of completion for my adventure, and two photos of me from Base Camp and Kala Patthar. The ceiling of my room is decorated with the large prayer flags I packed back from Nepal. These are tangible things, things I bought and carried home. The real treasure of the trip was finding out that sometimes you find yourself in the middle-of-nowhere, and sometimes, in the middle-of-nowhere, you find yourself.

Pretend Perfection

It is frighteningly awakening; to suddenly be aware of how your life can change in a matter of moments. Seconds, really. One moment, you are healthy, and the next, you are on your way to have surgery on a tumor you didn't even know you had. One second, it's a normal Christmas morning, and the next, you're scrambling around the kitchen because your Grandmother was always the entertainer during the holidays but this year, she isn't well.

One evening, you waltz out the door for a movie with a guy you recently reconnected with after five years and return home a girlfriend. His girlfriend.

It's a long story really. Those who remember our history completely understand, and those who don't probably never will. Honestly, the two of us can't really believe it either.

Suddenly I found myself post-surgery, cleared for a trip to Nashville on the condition that I wouldn't partake in any strenuous activity for about 10 days. Nashville; a far cry from my original plans but not at all disappointing, complete with the city atmosphere I required and an artistic community that I preferred. A baby New York City in its simplest form, and I had found my future home; one I never would have considered a week prior to my visit.

Sounds romantic, to say the least, so it was time to think logically. But jobs were wide open, salaries were appealing, and living situations had ten times the amount of options I had been previously considering. All roads essentially led to Nashville. God truly works in mysterious ways, and I am so thankful I was listening.

So there I was, in route of boarding a flight to Nashville, when I noticed her: a little four-year-old girl in a costume dress made like Princess Sofia, complete with a plastic tiara and purple dress-up shoes; likely the only way the poor mother could get the girl out of the house that morning.

"These kids better not make noise on this flight," I overheard the male voice from the row behind the little girl. I'm certain the mother heard it, too. I turned to face the overwhelmed momma who was balancing a baby on her hip while she instructed her pre-school daughter on proper flight etiquette. The baby wailed. The mother sighed. The men in front of me groaned. Loudly. The mother looked frustrated. The little girl looked sorry. 

A girl never has to be very mature to learn when she is being an inconvenience.

The little girl stood up, attempting to get out of a man's way (as many girls quickly learn to do), and her little bag spilled out all over the aisle. Picture books, colored pencils, and the girl's Barbie doll scattered across the row. Everyone in the immediate area moaned with annoyance.

The little girl looked up slowly, her lip quivering ever-so-slightly. Oh no, I told myself, I've seen that look before. And I had, though more often than not, I was the one living it rather than interpreting it. The growing burn in her throat coupled with damp, stinging eyes was all too familiar to me; a sign of weakness triggered by the rotten emptiness of inadequacy. After all, her mother was clearly counting on her to be a grown up today, and she was miserably failing.

It wasn't a moment later that another male thirty-something came crusading down the aisle, knocking the poor girl off her feet as she tried to gather the lost materials. As if watching the man's accidental push wasn't enough, the little girl's crown clattered on the floor of the aisle and the first tear was shed; a hopeful princess losing her crown due to her own disappointing failure.

No one even looked up to help. In fact, everyone seemed to turn away, as if ignoring it was the answer and oblivion would make it go away.

I couldn't take it anymore. Two steps behind the little girl, I dropped to my knees.

"Your Highness!" I exclaimed, "Be careful! You almost lost your crown."

The little girl was surprised. Her mother was touched. Those selfish men behind them were stunned.

"Thank you," the little girl practically whispered as she had likely been taught to do. I placed the little tiara back on her head.

"Of course," I told her, "Being a princess is hard sometimes!"

I kept walking, but I was likely impacted more than the little girl or her mother. There is a theme to every fairytale story; a dreaded point in the plot line where the Princess genuinely wishes she wasn't royalty. When she doubts that she's doing a good job, making a difference, or will ever be loved the way all the stories tell her she should be.

Being a girl in today's society is truly no different.

I would've been honored to be a member of that little girl's kingdom. Despite her youth, her innocence, and her incapabilities, she was doing exactly as she had been told. She was following directions; being quiet. Being polite. Being good. Trying her best to stay out of the way. It was not her fault that the odds were against her, as they are against all of us sometimes.

I can't help but notice that we should have more realistic expectations of people. The way people are asked to look, the way they are required to act, and the things they are expected to accomplish are not always possible, and may not be done exactly the same way you would do them. And that's okay. For whatever reason, it is generally acceptable for us to tear each other apart with the idea that we have to fit a standard model; that our thoughts and actions and opinions are to be executed and received in one way; specifically our way.

How selfish. Why are earth are we more concerned with pointing out everyone's struggles than we are recognizing things we do well? When I compliment a perfect stranger, they are stunned. Nine times out of ten, they look at me like I'm absolutely crazy, and I am no exception when I'm on the other end. I find myself fighting before receiving a compliment, rather than recognizing my worth and humbling myself to just say "thank you."

People often roll their eyes after they hear me say that we have just as much, if not more, to learn from children, but I see it every day. Our younger generations are losing confidence in themselves before they even have the capacity to gain it, and it is our fault. If we spent half as much time encouraging others as we do pretending to be perfect, we might all be a little stronger, and if our imperfections were recognized and accepted, would we still feel the need to pretend?

It isn't likely. Adults who doubt their own significance in the world are inevitably raising children who are unable to recognize their own. We cannot expect future generations to become more accepting if they are not shown how to do so, and it is our job: as parents, as educators, and as general role models, to be that confident example.

There is always a younger pair of feet dreaming of following in your footsteps. Make sure the life you are living is worth following.

History Has Its Eyes On You

This is not a political post. I don't write political posts. I write vulnerable posts, and this will be no different. Will you know who I voted for by the end of this article? No, I will not tell you. Will you be able to figure it out? Probably; if you're a regular reader with a firm grip on the things I believe. Will I delete your comments if you disagree with me? No. But will I debate with you about it? No. I will stand for what is important to me, but I will not fight with others because they disagree. I am putting a few thoughts out there because I am not a coward, but I will not flounder back and forth with you because I am not tacky. There has been one thought my blog had ridden on since the beginning: If you do not like what I have to say, you do not have to read it. If we do not agree now, we probably never will. That's okay. I will love you anyway. I will support you anyway. All I am asking is the same in return. 

November 7, 2016     11:30 pm

Tomorrow is the day we all never actually thought would happen. For over a year now, we have watched this election unfold. Even though I support one candidate more than the other, I could not fully support either one. I knew I would have to vote for someone I thought would make a bad President for the sole reason that I thought the other candidate would make an even worse President. And yet, I think I was waiting for some miraculous intervention that would take care of this mess for us. But here we are. We were not lucky enough for a miraculous intervention. Polls open in a few hours. May the odds be ever in our favor. 

November 8, 2016     7:20 am

People are flocking to the polls. I don't have practicum teaching today because my school is a poll site. I considered going in anyway to get a few hours and do some lesson planning, but I don't want anywhere near that madness. I can't even think about the future of the nation and the future of my students at the same time. Too much anxiety ensues when you put those precious futures together. 

November 8, 2016     5:30 pm

I just got back from class and the drama has already started. I'm signing off facebook until next week. I think it's interesting how so many friends preached the importance of remaining classy and loving through this madness. Those same friends are now carrying out heated debates through facebook comments and spewing hatred toward their loved ones who think differently. Everyone has always had a different opinion on everything. I often wonder why people think a presidential election with such drastic opinions and childish candidates will unite the nation. How can people not see that this is actually dividing us even more? 

November 8, 2016     7:20 pm

Thank goodness it is my friend and roommate's birthday. I get to go have some steak and good company amid the madness. I'm turning off the TV to indulge myself in some Texas Roadhouse rolls. I'm sure the election will still be on TV when I arrive back home. 

November 8, 2016     10:30 pm

Her birthday was filled with some good ol' country line dancing, good food, and good friends who couldn't shut up about the election, and I am not innocent of it myself. It's an addicting conversation. It was on almost every TV in the restaurant. No one was talking about their life. Everyone was talking about who they voted for and why and what their exit plan was to leave the country when their candidate didn't win. I wanted to participate in the conversation because I wanted to have a good time. But I knew the second I opened my mouth with my own opinion, I would be stuck yelling with those who agreed and debating with those who did not. I just took a deep breath and ate my bread. 

November 8, 2016     11:22 pm

My roommates and I are gathered on the couch. We are trying to find the good and the bad, but somehow we keep coming back to a whole lot of bad. We are fortunate enough to not be scared like so many of our other friends, but we are just human enough to be disappointed. Not necessarily in the candidate who is taking the lead, but in this entire election itself. The sentence most used in our apartment tonight: "This is just not how this election was supposed to go." 

November 9, 2016     12:30 am

My roommates are asleep so I am alone watching now. I need to go to bed. I can't believe I'm sitting here as if this is going to get any better. 

November 9, 2016     3:46 am

I woke up for medicine and water because my throat hurts. I am tempted to check in on the results. I turn my phone off instead. 

November 9, 2016     6:30 am

I logged onto facebook. That was a mistake. I'm going back to sleep. 

November 9, 2016     1:33 pm

Have any of you seen Hamilton: The Musical? There's a lyric regarding the election of 1800 that I can't shake from my head. Jefferson or Burr; we know it's lose/lose... Jefferson or Burr; but if you had to choose...

That's where we are. A lose/lose election, and yet, we're forced to choose. 

Am I happy with the way this turned out? Not really. Would I have been happy if the other candidate won? Not really. I haven't been on my personal facebook page at all since this morning, and won't (at least until the end of the week). I was naïve to think that this would all die down after the election. We aren't going to stop thrusting opinions on others and we aren't going to stop spewing hatred simply because one has been elected. Oh no, this will carry on for the next four years. Lucky us, huh? 

However, the goal of my blog was to remain a positive environment. So here are two of my favorite quotes from both of our candidates. 

Without passion you don't have energy, and without energy you have nothing. Nothing in this world has been accomplished without passion.

     -Donald Trump

To all the little girls watching... Never doubt that you are valuable and powerful, and deserving of every chance and opportunity in the world. 

     -Hillary Clinton

I have said before that there is one thing I will never share about myself: the person I voted for in a presidential election. Why? Because I believe in fighting for the stances and issues and beliefs I find most important. I believe in standing for what is right. I will tell you what I think about every topic on the political agenda. From there, you could probably guess which candidate will be filled in on my ballot if it is that important to you, but I will never specifically say their name. Why? Because if you disagree with me, you will try to change my mind (even though I am just as stubborn, if not more stubborn, than you are). And if you agree with me, you will act as though you've found your soul mate; the one kindred spirit on this earth that you can share everything with. 

I don't believe in taking sides. I believe in love. I believe in kindness, and positivity, and hope. 

So here's what we're gonna do. The results are in. Congratulations America, it's a boy. There is nothing we can do to change it if we wanted a girl, and no reason to flaunt it if we've prayed years for a boy. Some of us are happy, some of us a terrified, and some of us just want to forget the whole thing ever happened. Let's go back to the primaries. No, let's go back before that. Let's just start over, okay? 

We can't do that. So we're going to wake up each morning, make our coffee strong, and love like we've never loved before. The world is going to need a light, and it's going to have to come from us. 

Joy can be found in the darkest of times, if only we remember to turn on the light. 

This little light of mine? I'm gonna let it shine. I'm gonna take this light around the world and I'm gonna let it shine. I won't let anyone blow it out; I'm gonna let it shine. Every day, every night; I'm gonna let it shine. 

The future of this country (and this world), is not solely dependent on who we elect as President. Is our leadership important? Of course. But it depends on us, too. So keep on pressing on, my confident, beautiful love warriors. The world will need us now more than ever.