Daily Chronicles

By now, most of us were taking Diamox religiously and counting down to summit day eagerly. After the usual breakfast—eggs, toast, coffee or tea—we filled our water bottles, layered up, and set off toward Dingboche.

The trail wound past stupas and into stretches of dry, open land. The Dudh Kosi appeared once again below us, and as always, Ama Dablam stood ahead—elegant and impossible to ignore.

Along the way, we passed Sherpa farms, noticing yak dung spread out to dry—an essential source of fuel in villages where firewood is scarce. Life here adapts in practical, ingenious ways.

As we climbed higher, the landscape subtly transformed. Before crossing 14,000 feet, vegetation shifted into a muted but striking palette: dry browns, deep reds, retreating greens, and increasingly prominent juniper shrubs.

Dilman reminded us that once tree cover disappeared, Himalayan juniper would be the only vegetation we’d see at these altitudes. These shrubs hold deep cultural and religious significance for the local people—cutting them or even using them for cover during nature calls was a strict no.

We found a Kenyan couple on their way back after summiting EBC, happily jiving to the rhythm of the drum being played by the husband.

From Day2 onward, on every ascent, our Sherpas often reminded us to walk slowly and steadily, smiling as they said “bistāre, bistāre”. Friends who had been to Mount Kilimanjaro had shared how their guides used “pole, pole” for the very same reason. When we crossed paths with this couple, that shared language of the mountains came full circle.

After lunch, the trail threw in a few steep climbs, testing lungs already working overtime. By late afternoon, Dingboche came into view. It felt more developed than expected, but the wind had turned sharp and cold as we approached. We could see partly melted ice near many places. Traces of the heavy snowfall Dingboche had received a couple of weeks back.

Walking into our lodge’s dining hall, the sight of a wood burner already fired up brought instant relief. Our rooms were on the upper floors, and somewhere above us, an exhausted trekker muttered loudly,

“Who put these f—ing steps here? I’m so done climbing for the day.”

We silently agreed. But the scene outside the window was so majestic it removed the exhaustion whatever one had. The sun was setting and with a low layer of clouds the sky was painted yellowish orange.

At this altitude, we’d been told that an SpO₂ reading around 80% was perfectly acceptable. That number became our mental benchmark.

The dining hall felt like a large community space—warm, lively, and filled with trekkers. We recognised a few familiar faces from earlier teahouses and exchanged nods and smiles. Guides and porters gathered in their own corners, catching up like old friends.

After cookies and freshening up, we shared Indian snacks some of us had carried from home—comfort food tastes very different at 14,000 feet.

Wi-Fi via Nepal Airlink was available for purchase, and a few of us gave in. Bathrooms were common and clean, though basic. Nothing—not even toilet paper—was to be flushed; used paper went into open buckets. One in our group who had bought the private room package had an attached bathroom, though the tap initially ran muddy and rust-coloured before clearing. Drinking water was promptly repurposed for brushing.

As usual, dinner followed—along with fruit and our guide’s briefing for the next day. When we checked our SpO₂ levels, everyone was reading in the 80s or low 90s. We were acclimatising well. Reassured, warm, and steadily adapting to the thin air, we called it a night—now firmly living above the tree ine.