There’s a character to the alpine world that is perhaps indescribable, a tenor to the air and sky and wind and light that permeates everything in such a way that it defies words, defies any attempt at pinning it down in mere words. It is a feeling, an immutable presence enveloping everyone and everything, pressing down upon not in a negative, but in a profoundly positive way, a way that reminds without any pretense subtlety that we humans are but tiny specks, simple visitors to this wild realm, creatures of such little consequence to the magnificence and omnipotence of the surrounding vastness that we might as well not even be there.

And yet there we were, awestruck.

Leaving the windswept hamlet of Kongme Dingma, our team entered into that world immediately. A short climb from the valley brought brought us to panoramic views of the high peaks: Chamlang (the ever present), Kali Himal (AKA Chota Ri), Baruntse, and far in the distance, the imposing South Faces of Lhotse and Nuptse with Everest peeking out just above. Stunning.

From here upward, the Upper Hunku Valley is reminiscent of Khumbu - broad valleys and rushing water flanked on all sides by impossibly high, jagged massifs - but with one huge difference: no people. Up here, unlike Khumbu, there are no villages, no lodges, no trekkers or helicopters, no cell service. In the high Hunku it was as it had been for days before: just us.

We had three days in the upper valley, following a faint-but-solid trail that meandered along the turquoise Hunku; its glacial waters - beginning in the lakes of Seto and Paanch Pokhari - carry fine sediments ground out of the high peaks, sediments so tiny (just a few microns in diameter) they remain suspended in the water, absorbing most blue light and reflecting back the natural green of the water (with some blue) - plus the natural sunlight - creating an otherworldly vividness in this stark world.

With each step upward, altitude records continued to be set for Sam and Jhanak, and new view emerged for us all. Here a peek of Makalu, there a new aspect of Kangtega, Peak 41, Chamlang, or any of the countless unnamed jags of the valley. The toils of altitude, the panting lungs and burning legs, all dissipate under the spell of the high country.

Eventually we made it to our final camp, a beautiful scree shoulder above the upper Paanch Pokhari (paanch means five, and pokhari means pond or small lake) and just below Kami Himal/Chota Ri and the Amphu Laptsa. The December cold set upon us quickly, so we made it a brief evening with heartfelt goodbyes to most of our team: going over the pass would only be Sam, Jhanak, Tshering, Harka, and I along with three porters, Manbir Rai, Hem Rai, and Septa Rai, while the rest would trek together back to Chheskam.

A short night with a full moon found us awake at 5:30 AM ready to begin the climb. It’s not a long one up to the Amphu Laptsa - an ascent of just 1,200 feet - but that is compounded by the altitude plus a technical descent and long walk on the other side making for a solid day. And, a primary rule of the mountains is to always leave a window of daylight just in case: hence, an early start.

From camp, the route up the Amphu is interesting, but never desperate or dangerous. Steep slabs offer significant exposure, but are well-protected by via ferrata-style fixed lines added in recent years. After about 1.5 hours, we crested the prayer-flag crowned top and allowed ourselves time to savor the hard-earned view. From the Amphu, the landscape seems of a dream, and unreal mosaic of spires and walls, glaciers and lakes, blue skies and solitude forever. As I always do, I placed a few kathas at the highest point, offerings of blessings and remembrance for my family, my friends, for humanity, for our world, uttered a silent prayer to any divine presence nearby, and returned to our group a couple dozen feet below.

It was then that a problem arose. I’d like to say it was someone else’s, but ultimately as leader the bock stops with me, so it was mine, and I own it. During trip planning, I had insisted that all members planning to cross the Amphu - and especially any porters - must have traction devices (crampons or microspikes) at minimum. While mountain-hardy and well-heeled, our porters Manbir, Hem, and Septa are still of course human, prone to error and missteps. And, on the descent from the Amphu, an error or misstep will quite quickly lead to a cartwheeling 1,200 foot fall to the valley below. In short, death.

Obviously not a possibility I was willing to even entertain, so I was more than surprised to look down and see them beginning to descend fixed lines without any traction, only Chinese sneakers on polished snow and ice. Yikes.

After letting my stomach stop flip-flopping for a moment, I quickly put on my crampons and rushed down to our porters, our friends, and began making the situation right. There was no way to magically make traction devices appear, so I did what was my only option: made them drop their loads - I’d shuttle the gear to safety - and help them descend safely, chopping out steps where needed, having them stand on my boots when necessary, and hold on to both me and the fixed ropes for safety. It was a long and tedious process taking the better part of 1.5 hours (along with lowering the loads down a particularly steep section with help from Tshering and Harka), but eventually we got it done.

As another twist, in my haste to ensure the porters were safe, I had left Sam and Jhanak atop the pass with no more than a Schwarzenegger-esque “I’ll be back” to keep them safely in place. Fortunately, I know both of them well enough to know they’d be fine: the top of the pass is safe, the skies were clear, and both are level-headed people. Sure enough, when I got back up, they were concerned, but no worse for wear. We began the descent, with both Sam and Jhanak making it look like second nature, clipping fixed lines, rappelling steep slopes, and using crampons and technical equipment without issue.

With a sigh of relief, we reached the valley floor - all eight of us - a couple hours later, all in one piece. The hazard was behind, the stress abated, and all we had left was a 6-mile stroll through mesmerizing country to the village of Chukhung and our first roof and bed in 10 days. This last bit was uneventful-but-sublime, softening light warming the massif of the Lhotse-Nuptse wall as we strolled, alone, down valley.

We’d now shifted gears in a big way, we’d left the solitude and remoteness of the Hunku for the relative modernity and front-country-ness of the Khumbu. I won’t say it was bad - I’ve made many a trip up the Khumbu since my first in 1993, and it’s always wonderful, always showing its charms. But, after being utterly immersed in a landscape for some time with no distractions, nothing but us and the mountains, sky, and wind, it was more than a bit jarring for us all to reenter the world once again, phones pinging and helis overhead.

To be honest, there’s not much to share about our journey from Chukhung to Gorak Shep that hasn’t been written about before. We trekked Chukhung to Lobuche, then Lobuche to Gorak Shep, all under the watchful eye of the high peaks. Once at Gorak Shep, we had a bit of food and geared up to watch a ferociously cold sunset from the top of Kala Pattar, the quasi-peak that fins off of Pumori and gives one of the better vantage points of Everest.

The hike up Kala Pattar was again uneventful, it being a simple trail going up about an hour to a rocky bit at 18,450 feet. Once there, we tucked into some rocks to shield from the wind, and prepared to watch the nature’s fireworks light up the sky. While certainly cold, we took the edge off with some of Sam’s special Scottish treats: shortbread and sweets, and of course a dram of Sassenach whiskey to make it all complete. And, the mountain obliged: From Kala Pattar, the upper Southwest Face of Everest is uniquely visible between Nuptse and the West Shoulder, and being the highest, it stays lit by the setting sun after everything else has gone dark. We sat and watched, largely in silence aside from our shivers, as shadows danced pirouettes across the landscape and the world made a slow fade from whites to amber hues, then to vivid reds and oranges, eventually dipping to the cold, dark blue of twilight.

Under the stars, under the quiet of the Himalayan night, we made our descent.