Himalaya Odyssey (2/6)

The Best-Laid Plan

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I made the perfect plan.

This was a gift for my father’s sixty-sixth birthday. I wanted him to arrive in peak condition.

I scraped together airline miles, scouring websites daily. Finally, I booked it. A business-class ticket, as rare as a flower in a drought.

“Done.”
A smile spread across my face. All reservations were complete.

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The plan collapsed right at the airport.

A sudden, heavy snowfall—a record-breaking one. In an instant, my perfect plan turned to dust.

The airport was a madhouse. Shouts erupted. Endless queues formed.

The entire terminal was in chaos, and the poor gate agents had become 1-on-1 counseling centers.

“Well, at least our flight isn’t canceled!”

“Right, Dad?”

After waiting over 10 hours, we were smiling as we finally boarded. The fear of cancellation melted away with our tension. All we had to do now was go. We began to talk, full of hope.

The flight attendants greeted us kindly. We took our drinks. And then, we noticed them rushing about. We looked around, uneasy. The cabin was buzzing. Something was clearly wrong.

Me, beaming, clueless about what would happen minutes later.

The flight was canceled. The airport in Kathmandu would be closed by our arrival time, so we couldn’t take off.

There was no backup plan, no compensation.

“I’m fine. Let’s go.”

His words stunned me.

“What?”

The day passed in a blur. I don’t even remember how I booked it. I woke up, and we were at the airport. We boarded the China Eastern flight. We slept for 10 hours on a sofa in the Guangzhou airport.

A son in his thirties and a father in his mid-sixties, conquering the Himalayas. My perfect plan... The business-class seats... That picture was gone. I had to laugh at our completely new reality—mixed with a small relief that we were, at least, doing it.

We watched the fiery sunrise from the airport. Thinking only hope remained.

I took a sip of warm coffee. It felt like sitting in a sauna. We looked at each other, smiled as if nothing had happened, and spoke.

“Haha. Can’t believe we’re here.”

“Tell me about it. (Haha)”

I guess the ‘can-do’ spirit is hereditary. Our family’s reckless optimism couldn’t be stopped, not even by a record snowfall.

No time to wash, no time to sleep.

We landed in Kathmandu, the air thick and ghostly with smog.

The first shock: our guide program didn’t include accommodation or food.
The second shock: they didn’t take cards, or even US dollars.

From this point on, I just decided to let go. To go with the flow. In truth, if I didn’t, I felt I would give up entirely.

We forced down food—half meal, half smog—while waiting for the bus. My stomach ached immediately.

We somehow exchanged for Nepalese Rupees. A thick wad of cash I couldn’t even count. No time to check if the exchange rate was right. We were immediately loaded onto a rattling vehicle for 5 hours. It wasn’t a bus—it was a jeep, or something like it. We raced toward the starting point, trying to make up for lost time.

It had been almost 40 hours with no real sleep. I was in a daze. For my father, it must have been an extreme endurance test.

The trek hadn’t even begun,
but we were already exhausted.

We were still reeling from the ridiculous schedule. Our guide insisted, “You have to eat,” so we shoveled the bland food into our mouths. Then we walked.

And walked.

Usually on a hike, the beautiful scenery gives you strength when you’re tired. But the scenery was of ‘no’ help. The road ahead was just too long.