It’s taken me a while to be ready to share my Everest Base Camp story. The trek took so much from me yet gave me so much at the same time. It was as much a mental journey as it was a physical one, and it tested my resilience in a way no other challenge has. 

I’ve always wanted to hike in the Himalayas, but truth be told, I would never have chosen Everest Base Camp. If you know me at all, you will know I prefer travelling off the beaten path, and Everest Base Camp is certainly not that! With over 80,000 tourists trekking up and down each year, it is certainly well-trodden! But since it was an event being run by Street Child, I decided to sign up and find out for myself whether the pictures painted by the media were actually true!

Having failed to complete the duathlon in Sierra Leone earlier on in the year, I was determined to succeed on Everest Base Camp, an expectation which has made it very hard to readjust after coming off the mountain.

I trained hard all summer to make sure I was fit enough. I paused my travels so I could base myself in Spain where I was able to get out in the mountains every day. I spent a couple of weeks in the Pyrenees hiking every day. I started working with a Sam Keen PT online. I was determined not to let myself down.

But there was one big unknown: altitude sickness. Only it wasn’t an unknown to me. I did a day trek on Kilimanjaro back in May and suffered badly. My legs felt like lead, I couldn’t get enough air in, I was dizzy, nauseous and my head was banging. What if this repeated itself again on my way to Everest Base Camp?

Turns out I was worried about the wrong thing! No amount of training or Diamoxin could prepare me for the emotional highs and devastating lows that lay ahead.

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The Greatest Team

The first thing you notice about a group like ours is that no reality TV show could ever script this mix of characters. Each brought their quirks, humour, and surprises, turning an already epic Everest Base Camp trek into a memorable rom-com drama.

There was Mark, the Head of Global Challenges at Street Child, who can best be described as the brother I never asked for! His dry, sarcastic humour is razor sharp, and our constant banter (or should I say bickering) became a trek-long entertainment feature. His best mate, Grant, tried valiantly to match Mark’s mean streak but fell hilariously short. He is too much of a sweetheart to try and be mean. Plus, half the time I needed subtitles to understand his thick northern twang.

We had Ash, quite possibly the funniest woman I’ve ever met. Witty, self-deprecating, and always ready with a one-liner, she kept our spirits high even when the oxygen levels weren’t. While her best mate Emma started off quiet and reserved, she transformed into a radiant flower, her laughter and smile a contagious concoction we should have bottled for morale boosts.

Gareth and Ian were the dark horses of the group, hidden being their gentle giant demeanour, they also hid a wicked sense of humour which would have us howling with laughter as the trek progressed. They are also my unsung heroes. As the unofficial pace setters for the group, they got me to Everest Base Camp by keeping the pace slow and steady throughout.  

There are not many adventures I do without Amy, one of the most beautiful souls I know. I am in awe of the determination and grit that shone through when it mattered most. Amy, if you are reading this, you’re a rockstar.

Then came Pam, our 62 year old firecracker with a zest for life that could outshine anyone half her age. Her laugh was infectious, her humour sharp, and her energy downright inspiring. Meanwhile, the trio of Zoe, Carole, and Deb became the group’s quiet but steady heartbeat. Like the mum’s of the trek, they brought a calming presence and were always there for a kind chat (unless the topic was politics!).

And last but not least, Danny. Oh, Danny! Uniquely and unapologetically himself, he thrived on controversial conversations, picking the most polarising topics just to see where they’d land. While we often disagreed, I grew to admire his thought-provoking curiosity and welcomed his unique take on the world.

Our Guides and Porters

Our team would never have been complete without our guides and porters. Kamala, our lead guide, was an absolute powerhouse – an inspiration not just to women in Nepal but to everyone. Her wicked sense of humour and ability to dive into our banter made her stand out. Meanwhile, RD’s charismatic smile could light up the mountains, even if descriptions of the terrain were optimistic at best. (“Just a short uphill” became our Everest Trek in-joke since his short uphills were never short!).

Finally, our team of porters – the unsung heroes of the trek. Carrying our loads, dancing through the trails, and offering endless encouragement, they were the backbone of our journey. Their heroics would soon take centre stage in my story, but I won’t spoil the ending just yet!

Together, this ragtag team of trekkers, guides, and porters became a family – bickering, laughing, and supporting each other as we climbed higher and higher. And I would not have wanted to do it with anyone else!

The Trek

The Everest Base Camp trek is as much a journey of contrasts as it is of altitude. It begins with a heart-in-mouth landing at Lukla – the world’s most dangerous airport. Why so dangerous? Because the runway is uphill, short and ends in a cliff!

We arrived without our duffel bags though, as they didn’t all fit on the tiny plane. Our porters stayed behind to wait for them while we set off into the village of Lukla for our first experience of a tea house. These off-grid sanctuaries are a testament to human resilience and hospitality and would become our lifeline as we made our way up the mountain.  

What surprised me the most were the villages that were dotted up the valley all the way to Gorak Shep, a stone’s throw away from Base Camp. There are no roads connecting them, just the same paths shared by trekkers, locals, porters, hikers, yaks, and donkeys. Not a single motorised vehicle exists here. And yet some of the stores, especially in Namche Bazaar, were better stocked than my Tesco back home, in the Cotswolds! Oh, and did I mention there’s an Irish pub? Of course, there’s an Irish pub!

The trekking itself wasn’t overly arduous either, the training I’d done over the summer meant I was comfortable at any pace, although the relentless uphills often left me questioning my life choices. It was the thinning air and worsening health that would challenge me as the trek went on. I kept ploughing on though. Wise? Probably not.

Day 1: Lukla (2,840 m) and Trek to Phakding (2,610 m)

The trek starts with a surprisingly gentle day – something I’d realise would not happen again! The trek was mainly downhill, something that filled me with dread knowing we would need to retrace our steps on the final day! It gave us the perfect chance to ease into the rhythm of the mountains and get to know our fellow trekkers.

The trail passed through villages, bustling with life. We passed our first donkey caravan, their bells echoing through the valley. The Khumbu region unfolded before us: prayer wheels spinning in the breeze, children laughing, and porters carrying impossibly large loads with an ease that would put my laboured breathing to shame in days to come.

By the time we reached Phakding, it became apparent that we had very different paces in the group. I had to run for over 10 minutes, risking getting lost while navigating one of the small villages, to catch up with the group in front to ask them to wait so we could walk into Phakding as a team. We weren’t a team just yet, but we would soon become one hell of a close knit one!

We spent our first evening in the communal area, swapping stories and laughter with other travellers while keeping warm by the fire. If only I’d known then just how cold it was going to get the higher we went!

Day 2: Phakding (2,610 m) to Namche Bazaar (3,440 m)

Day 2 was long and tiring, with some big brutal climbs, but step by step, we all made it, helped by the reminder of why we were there: the children!

As we were walking up some steep steps, we spotted a little kid ahead proudly wearing a Street Child backpack. She was just about managing the big steps on her own while her mother carried a younger child on her back. She was on her way to school, the same school that we were visiting, to learn more about Street Child’s projects within the rural communities of Nepal.

Unlike many of the schools in Sierra Leone, where the infrastructure is lacking, here the infrastructure is pretty good, but the problem lies in whether the children are actually learning. The boom in tourism in the area means that many parents can afford to send their kids to school in Kathmandu, leaving the schools nearly devoid of kids from Grade 4 upwards. This poses a real challenge for the teachers and the kids that are left behind.

In the school we visited there was two Grade 4 kids, one Grade 5, no Grade 6, and one Grade 7. These 4 kids made up one class making it really hard for the teacher to teach them all at the right level. Furthermore, the lack of kids makes government funding harder to attain which impacts the quality of the teachers that are hired for the job.

Street Child have a great method called TARL (Teaching At the Right Level) which is key to making sure all kids, regardless of their background or their parents income, are able to receive a good quality education.

Thinking about those kids and the other projects we had learned about in Kathmandu certainly helped me up the steep inclines that afternoon!

Day 3: Namche Bazaar (3,400) to Khumjung (3,790 m)

We woke up on Day 3 to a reality that’s all too common on treks like this – one of our own, Ash, had taken a turn for the worse. Her usual spark was dimmed as she soldiered through the day with a tenacity that left us in awe.

This day was billed as an “acclimatisation day” – a fancy way of saying, “You will tackle a very steep hill and then lose all the elevation you have fought for”! We left Namche Bazaar behind with a rude awakening. Steps from the moment we stepped out of the tea house all the way to the Tenzing Norgay Museum. Perched on a hill with sweeping views, the museum is a tribute to one of the greatest mountaineering legends. It celebrates Tenzing Norgay, who, alongside Sir Edmund Hillary, was the first to summit Everest in 1953. Among its displays are historic photos, gear used during the first ascent, and stories of courage. But more importantly, it shared the story of the Sherpa community.

It was here, standing under a crisp blue sky, that we got our first glimpse of Everest. I would love to say that it rose defiantly above the surrounding giants, but truth be told, its pyramid shape looked somewhat unimposing. In fact, Mark took a photo of me pointing at it but managed to get me pointing at the wrong mountain!

From there, we zig zagged our way to Sagarmatha Next Museum. This unique space focuses on one of Everest’s highly reported challenges: rubbish. Everest and the Khumbu Valley are home to an alarming amount of litter thanks to decades of trekking expeditions without the necessary means to properly dispose of it.

The museum showcases incredible art created from waste collected in the mountains, transforming discarded oxygen canisters and wrappers into thought-provoking sculptures. It left me reflecting on my own impact and vowing to be more conscious of the footprints I leave behind.

Time to go off the beaten path

We continued on up to the Everest View Hotel, likely the hotel with the most spectacular panoramas of Everest. This is a popular stop for acclimatisation hikes, with most groups turning back and returning to Namche. But not us! Target Himalaya was taking us off the beaten path, and instead, we descended into Khumjung, a picturesque village nestled against a backdrop of towering peaks. Khumjung is the kind of village I had imagined – prayer flags fluttering in the wind, stone houses with green roofs, and a tranquillity that is hard to describe.

With the afternoon free to explore, we set off to visit a monastery that houses one of the region’s most peculiar treasures: a yeti skull! Yes, you read that right! The monks here proudly display what they claim is the skull of a yeti, the mythical creature said to roam the Himalayas. I’m no zoologist, but let’s just say it looked… questionable.

Later, we stumbled upon a bakery where we indulged in sweet treats and good coffee while discussing American politics. At least it can be said that Trump definitely provides plenty of conversation fodder!

But that evening ended on a sombre note. Kamala broke the news: unless Ash’s health improved drastically overnight, she wouldn’t be able to continue the trek with us. Everest was slowly revealing her beauty and challenges, and we were only just beginning to grasp what it would take to reach Base Camp.

Day 4: Khumjung (3,790 m) to Phortse (3,840 m)

Hooray! Day 4 began with some good news: Ash felt well enough to crack a joke at breakfast, which confirmed she was back in the game! Spirits lifted, we set off into the crisp mountain air, heading on the lightly trodden trail from Khumjung to Phortse.

The hike out of Khumjung was breathtaking. The chill in the air was invigorating, and the trail, a gentle, relatively flat stretch, allowed us to take in our surroundings. It wasn’t long before we spotted our first daphne – the national bird of Nepal. We also saw tahr, wild mountain goats perched precariously on rocky ledges, watching us walk by.

Eventually, the trail began to pull upward, and we reached the Hilltop Cafe at 3,975 metres – the highest I’d ever been. After a lemon, ginger, and honey tea break, we descended into the valley, crossing raging rivers and marvelling at the relentless determination of the porters we passed, carrying loads that defied logic.

The final climb to Phortse tested everyone’s grit. Ash was pacing herself carefully, and Amy, despite being one of the strongest people I know, was locked in a battle with her inner demons. Demons that would come to haunt us all at some point during the trek.

What stood out most on this day, though, was how the group began to solidify as a team. Those with extra energy took bags from the struggling hikers, ensuring we moved together. It was camaraderie at its finest – a collective understanding that we’d get there, not as individuals but as a unit.

By the time we reached Phortse, a charming village perched high on the mountainside, the mood had shifted. Spirits were high again, and Mark and I even celebrated with a spontaneous dance-off. Whether it was the altitude or the adrenaline, I couldn’t tell you, but the two of us made utter fools of ourselves, much to everyone’s delight.

Phortse has an untouched, tranquil vibe, with fewer trekkers and a connection to Sherpa culture that felt more intimate. We stayed in a Sherpa Tea House where every family member has summitted Everest, some multiple times. It’s also home to a Sherpa training centre, where climbers learn the skills they’ll need to guide others up Everest and other towering peaks. The centre also boasts a bouldering wall, which a couple of us had a go on.

I made one big mistake here, though: I took a shower and washed my hair. The water was warm and lulled me into a false sense of comfort, but drying off in the icy air led to my demise. That niggly cough I’d been nursing since Kathmandu began to take a sinister turn. It transformed into a hacking fit that echoed through the night, leaving me speechless and increasingly concerned. The mountains were reminding me that they are not just majestic – they are merciless, too. Everest wasn’t going to let me get to Base Camp without a fight.   

Day 5: Phortse (3,840 m) to Dingboche (4,410 m)

The day began with a cruel reality: an immediate uphill climb. I was already feeling a little off, but as we started the ascent, my body decided to throw in its two cents. Light-headedness and breathlessness hit me like an unwelcome guest, and my ever-worsening cough ensured that even the simplest conversation was off the table – every attempted word was met with a coughing fit.

For the first time on this trek, I felt weak. It wasn’t just the altitude creeping in; it was something more insidious – a sense of vulnerability I wasn’t ready to face. For the first time, I realised the value of Gareth and Ian for more than just great conversation. The two gentle giants had become the group’s unofficial pacemakers, their slow, steady, and unwavering rhythm proving a gift for anyone struggling. Without a word, I slipped in behind them, letting their consistent pace guide me up the hill. No rush, no fuss – just one step at a time. It wasn’t glamorous, but it worked.

The trail to Dingboche was relatively easy, but it was long. The landscape was changing now and becoming more barren and dramatic. We climbed higher into the Khumbu Valley. Trees gave way to scrubland, and the jagged peaks seemed closer, almost within reach. But the altitude had a way of reminding us that “easy” is a relative word out here.

By the time we reached our tea house in Dingboche, I was done. My body had officially checked out, and all I wanted to do was crawl under the covers, only it was too cold for that. My world was shrinking to the essentials: breath, rest, eat. I didn’t even have the energy to post on social media!

Day 6: Acclimatisation Day in Dingboche

We woke up to clear skies and a tough decision. Two options lay ahead: a “gentle” jaunt up to 4,700 metres or a punishing climb to 5,080 metres to Nangkartshang Peak. The latter promised better acclimatisation and, naturally, the opportunity to test how much oxygen our lungs could not get at that altitude. Why go easy when you can torture yourself in the name of adventure?

I opted for the tougher climb despite the sleepless night and hacking cough. While five of us heaved, puffed, and questioned our life choices on one of the most relentless ascents I’ve ever experienced (although I say that every time it’s a steep climb), the rest of the group enjoyed a gentle hike that left them with enough energy to make TikTok dance videos.

The climb itself was brutal. And every single metre of elevation gained felt like a victory and punishment all at once. It wasn’t long before Mark and I discovered a surprising hazard of high altitude trekking: laughing. Yes, even a chuckle left us doubled over, gasping for breath, which only made it funnier exacerbating the problem! I promptly sent Mark away – his sarcastic commentary was too much for my dwindling oxygen supply!

Instead, I retreated into my own head, finding solace in a rhythm: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. Over and over, I counted my way up the mountain, refusing to look up until I simply couldn’t go any further. And when I did? The reward was beyond words. The views were nothing short of phenomenal – snow-capped peaks that seemed close enough to touch, valleys carved by glaciers, and a sense of stillness that no photo could capture.

Reaching Nangkartshang Peak wasn’t just a physical accomplishment; it was emotional. It remains my proudest moment of the trek, surpassing even the achievement of reaching base camp itself. There was something deeply personal about conquering that climb – it was just me, my willpower, and a sheer refusal to give up – although I will admit to having thought about it most of the way up!

But what goes up must come down – and for Pam, the descent was less of a controlled hike and more of a sliding masterclass. Loose rocks on sandy soil proved too much, and she spent most of the way down on her bum, alternating between laughter and frustration. To her credit, she handled it with good humour, turning what could’ve been a miserable trek into something bordering on slapstick comedy.

Eventually, we stumbled back to the teahouse, feeling accomplished but utterly spent. With what little energy remained, we sought our a bakery for a well earned sugar fix and a hot chocolate.

That night, as I lay down to sleep, I braced myself for another round of relentless coughing that had already made me the most unpopular roommate on our expedition. At least the barking dogs outside might have drowned me out for a few minutes… although I think it was my coughing that was setting them off.

Day 7: Dingboche (4,410 m) to Lobuche (4,940 m)

The day started with such promise. The morning hike through the valley was breathtaking, surrounded by snow-dusted peaks and the kind of crisp mountain air that makes your lungs feel alive. Despite lingering fatigue and illness, I felt surprisingly buoyed by the acclimatisation hike from the day before. My spirits were high, and I found myself bouncing up and down the line, snapping photos, filming videos, and chatting with anyone who needed a little motivation.

But as the trek wore on, so did I. Slowly, without me even noticing, the energy I thought I had was slipping through my fingers.

By lunchtime, I hit my first wall. I collapsed into a chair and promptly fell asleep at the table. Twice, Grant woke me, urging me to eat my Sherpa Stew. The third time, he dubbed me in for not eating enough, earning me a stern look from Kamala and a “we aren’t leaving until you eat at least half”. I forced down as much as I could with the same petulance I showed as a kid when I was forced to eat my veg.

The afternoon brought a steep climb, which I perked up for. It’s like I had a switch that would fire me up when I really needed it. Along the way, we stopped to pay our respects to those who lost their lives attempting to conquer Everest. The fluttering prayer flags and simple stone monuments told stories of courage, dreams, and sacrifice – a sobering reminder of the mountain’s might.

Reaching Lobuche felt like a victory for the group, but for me, it marked a breaking point. By the time we arrived, I was completely spent. My body had lost its ability to regulate temperature – I was simultaneously shivering uncontrollably and sweating profusely. My cough, which had been bad before, now reached a new level of ferocity.

While everyone else went out to explore Lobuche and enjoy the highest bakery in the world, I curled up in bed, a mix of exhaustion and despair overwhelming me. Tears streamed down my face as I thought about all the effort I’d put into this trek, only to feel my body betraying me now. I wasn’t just letting myself down – I was ruining the trip for others, too. My cough echoed through the thin walls of the tea house, keeping Amy, my roommate, awake, along without anyone in adjacent rooms. The guilt weighed as heavily as the fatigue.

Dinner was a struggle. Normally, eating is the last thing I’d ever have trouble with, but every bite felt like a marathon. My body was shutting down, and my mind wasn’t far behind. I forced it all down, knowing I needed the calories, and retreated to bed, bracing myself for what I instinctively knew would be a rough night.

Rough it was. Feverish and delirious, I tossed and turned, my body drenched in ice-cold sweat one moment and burning the next. I’d throw off my blankets in desperation, only to wake moments later frozen and panicked. Amy, ever the saint, repeatedly woke to cover me back up despite her own worsening cough. Whatever I had, it was clear she was catching, and the guilt of that hit me like a freight train even through my fevered haze.

Day 8: Lobuche to Gorak Shep (5,170 m) and Everest Base Camp (5,364 m) and then back to Gorak Shep

The night stretched on endlessly. By morning, I felt broken in every possible way. It wasn’t just the physical toll – I was mentally and emotionally frayed, wondering if this was the end of my journey. Could I really continue? Or more important, should I really? Was I about to lose the fight when I was so close to Everest Base Camp?

I shouldn’t have continued. I knew I was too weak. I’ve done many challenges, and I know what my body is and isn’t capable of. And I have pushed myself to my limits often. This was one of those times when I should have given up. But instead, I lied about how I was feeling, put on a brave face, and started walking.

From the very first step, I knew it was a mistake. My legs were moving, but my mind was slipping further and further away. The world around me became distorted, blurring the line between reality and hallucination. Dementors swooped down from the sky, circling me, and I found myself in conversation with an old man who wasn’t even there. My body was moving, but my brain wasn’t fully engaged – until we hit some tricky terrain. The sudden need to focus on navigating the path snapped me back, if only briefly, to reality.

We reached Gorak Shep for lunch, and while everyone else tucked into their meals with the kind of hunger only trekking can inspire, I sat in silence, sipping soup and summoning every ounce of energy I had left. I wasn’t ready to give up yet, even though I knew I should.

After lunch, we set off to Base Camp. It was tricky terrain. Loose rocks, steep, sharp inclines and descents, which you did not want to get wrong. As we walked along the final ridge, I saw the final descent and thought, “I will never get back up again”. My legs felt like lead, and my chest burned with every breath. I almost turned to Mark and said, “I can’t do it”. But then that little voice of stubbornness – the one that has both saved me and ruined me countless times – kicked in. I gritted my teeth and kept going.

And that’s how I made it to Everest Base Camp

I wish I could describe it to you, but the truth is, I don’t remember much of it. There was a big rock, the one every trekker takes a photo under, and some prayer flags fluttering in the wind. It felt underwhelming, and I could only think of one thing: “How am I going to get back?”.

The trek back to Gorak Shep loomed over me like a shadow. Dizzy and disoriented, I struggled to keep a straight line on the path. The slightest incline felt insurmountable. I wanted nothing more than to curl up on the ground and give up.

And then, out of nowhere, my saviour appeared: a shaggy, bay pony. I stumbled over to the man and croaked, “How much?”.

“$120” – he replied.

“$100” – I muttered, hoping he somehow accepted credit cards! The man didn’t hear me, but Danny, one of my fellow trekkers, stepped in and negotiated on my behalf. A deal was struck, and just like that, I found myself hoisted onto the pony’s back.

I can’t say I felt proud of the decision. In fact, I felt deeply embarrassed to be taking what felt like the “easy” way out. But I also knew I was in no condition to walk back. If I had tried, I would’ve been a liability, endangering the group and forcing others to help me. And worse still, Mark would have to do paperwork if things went south, something very much frowned upon!

The pony carried me safely back to Gorak Shep, where I stumbled into the tea house, ready to collapse into bed. But instead of resting, my thoughts turned to the team. They were still out there, making the arduous trek back, and I wanted to support them in any way I could. So, I bought an armful of chocolate bars and made my way to the start of the trail to wait.

The first group arrived quickly, grateful but eager to keep moving and warm up. I handed them some chocolate and waved them on. The last group took a little longer. Just as I was about to give up (I was getting very cold!), I saw Gareth’s and Ian’s figures moving slowly in the fading light, Mark and Grant behind them. Mark looked torn between scolding me for not resting and appreciating the chocolate. The chocolate won.

Back at the teahouse, exhaustion washed over me. But it wasn’t my turn to be delirious that night – it was Amy’s. Feverish and coughing, she tossed and turned just as I had the night before. And though my own body was barely holding on, I couldn’t help but feel guilty. What I had, I had passed it on to her.

Day 8 was the hardest day of the trek for all of us, physically, mentally and emotionally. But despite the challenges, Base Camp was behind us, and somehow, we were still moving forward.

Day 9: Gorak Shep (5,170) to Kala Patthar (5,545 m) and Pheriche (4,280 m)

Worn out and battered, none of us even entertained the idea of the sunrise hike to Kala Patthar. With 22km ahead, we had enough on our plates.

We waved off Ian, Gareth, and Danny, who decided a helicopter ride back sounded far more appealing than trekking another step (knowing what I know now, I wish I’d joined them!) Meanwhile, the rest of us laced up and started retracing our way down.

With every metre we descended, our lungs began to feel fuller, the air thicker. I still felt awful, but there was a noticeable shift. My cough had moved to my chest, and while hacking up phlegm wasn’t glamorous, it felt like progress compared to the dry, torturous cough I’d endured for days. Plus, it is always more satisfying when you have something to show for it.

The descent was far colder than the way up, and by afternoon, we found ourselves enveloped in a thick mist. The landscape felt eerily quiet, except for the sound of boots crunching on gravel and the occasional chatter to keep spirits up.

Thankfully, the path was mostly a gentle downhill, which was the rest I needed to help me recover.

Day 10: Pheriche (4,280 m) to Namche Baazar (3,400 m)

It was not quite as long as the marathon trek from Gorak Shep, but it was still no walk in the park. Considering we were meant to be descending Everest Base Camp, it sure felt like there were an awful lot of steep uphills. Every time we descended to a river, it was followed by yet another gruelling climb back up. And each time, RD lied to us. “Just a short incline”. We certainly have very different definitions of short!

On route, we stopped at Tengboche Monastery, the largest monastery in the valley. A peaceful stop that offered a moment to pause and reflect. Or, in my case, a chance for Kamala to rope me into more TikTok videos.

Once we reached Namche Bazaar, the vibe shifted from survival mode to celebration. A round of drinks at the highest Irish pub in the world felt like the reward we all deserved.

As we neared the end of the trek, I started to shift my perspective. Sure, I’d needed a pony to get from Base Camp to Gorak Shep, but that didn’t mean I had failed. I had made it to Base Camp despite being on death’s door, and I was going to walk myself to Lukla (or so I thought!), and that was something I should be proud of.

One more day to go, and the promise of a proper shower was finally within reach!

Day 11: Namche Baazar (3,400 m) to Lukla (2,840 m)

Full of beans and buzzing at the thought of finally finishing the trek, I decided to run down the steps of Namche Bazaar. It was a decision that would not only derail the end of my trek, but my entire year.

We’d barely been walking for five minutes when an almighty crack echoed through my leg, followed by indescribable pain. I’d gone over on my ankle while running, and as I hopped around shouting every explicit I knew, I knew I’d done some serious damage.

I crumpled to the ground, raising my leg as a group quickly gathered. Boots and socks were whipped off while sprays and bandages flew out of the first aid kit. An old woman appeared from nowhere and started moving my foot. I had no idea who she was but I put my trust in her. My ankle was moving, therefore it had to fine.

The word “helicopter” was muttered, which I instantly dismissed. I was walking myself to Lukla. So I got up, gritted my teeth, and hobbled down the trail. After about 500 metres, Zoe – who happens to be a nurse – gently convinced me to at least let someone bandage it. I conceded to that but remained steadfast about dismissing the helicopter.

And so the hobble continued. Across suspension bridges, past the school we visited on Day 2, up and down steep sections, and over countless uneven sections that Dawa, one of the porters, helped me navigate by holding on to my elbow as a makeshift human crutch. Another porter carried my backpack to ease the load. Every step was slow, deliberate and filled with single-minded determination.

It’s time to give up, Bea.

I managed 4-5 km before Kamala finally put her foot down: if I wasn’t going to take a helicopter, I had to get on a pony. No arguments. I protested but ultimately conceded. And so, for the second time on this trek, I found myself on a pony – I was heartbroken.

I replayed the moment over and over in my head, feeling utterly stupid for running. I felt like a failure. As we passed other trekkers, I convinced myself they were judging me. “Look at her”, I imagined them thinking. “She couldn’t even walk herself out!”. “How lazy can one be?!”. “Fat people shouldn’t be allowed to hike to Everest Base Camp”.

With the adrenaline fading, the pain in my ankle became impossible to ignore. It was excruciating.

Hours later, we finally reached Lukla. My pony’s work wasn’t done yet, though, as it carried me straight to the hospital – which, ironically, is the most inaccessible hospital in the world. Descending a scree slope and climbing 200 steps to reach it felt like a cruel joke. Surely a hospital in the Himalayas would be easier to reach, considering most injuries involve legs?

The diagnosis: a bad sprain. I was put in a cast, handed some painkillers, and sent on my way. Waiting for me were all the porters who had come to check I was OK. They were such an awesome crew!

My loyal pony carried me back to the teahouse, where the rest of the group was celebrating the successful end of their trek. Meanwhile, I wanted nothing more than to cry. But I plastered on a smile, scooted down the steps on my bum, and joined them at the Irish bar for a game of pool and some dancing (well, for them, not me!). Because if there is one thing I’ve learned, it’s that sometimes you just have to laugh.

Day 12: Fly Back to Kathmandu

I’d imagined the last day to be a breeze: wake up, hobble to the airport, fly to Kathmandu and revel in the luxury of a hot shower. Simple right? Wrong!

The day started with a gloomy sky, mist, and rain – none of which bode well for flights from Lukla. Still, I grabbed my crutches and began the slow, gruelling hop to the airport. Having done zero upper-body work in preparation for this trek, heaving my body weight up and down steps was an unexpected challenge. My arms protested every step of the way while my left hip (my good leg) threatened to go on strike!

At last, we arrived at Lukla’s famously tiny and chaotic airport. It was packed. The air was thick with tension as we learned that no flights had left the day before. Everyone stranded yesterday had priority over us. Our fate? Unknown.

And so began the waiting game. Hours stretched on as we loitered around the cramped terminal, subsisting on chocolate and crisps from a lone kiosk. Spirits flagged as the morning dragged into the afternoon. Flights came and went, but nobody could tell us whether we’d be on one of them. The thought of hobbling back to the tea house for yet another night without a shower filled me with dread.

Finally, at 2 pm, the news we’d been praying for arrived: we were on the one and only flight heading to Kathmandu that day. Relief doesn’t begin to cover it. It felt like the climactic moment of a survival movie. I half expected dramatic music to start playing as we boarded. (The Last King of Scotland comes to mind!).

Back in Kathmandu, I hobbled straight for the shower. It wasn’t quite the zen moment I’d envisioned (it turns out that balancing on one leg while scrubbing 12 days of grime is tricky), but it was glorious nonetheless.

That evening, we celebrated in style: dinner, speeches, and live music. Laughter filled the room as we reflected on the highs, lows, and everything in between. It was bittersweet knowing we’d soon part ways and return to reality.

The road to recovery

It’s been six weeks since I returned from Nepal, and I’m still on a long road to recovery. My ankle may never be the same again, and that thought lingers heavily in my mind.

In Nepal, I didn’t fully trust the medical advice I received – it clashed completely with what western medicine recommended – so I made the decision to fly home. But I’d forgotten how overwhelmed the NHS can be. When I voiced my concerns after a couple of weeks, they brushed me off, insisting I just had to be patient.

Eventually, I returned to Spain for Christmas, where a physiotherapist finally took me seriously. My concerns had been fully valid. My injury had healed incorrectly; the tendons on my foot were mounting against each other, and my ankle was visibly deformed. The persistent blueness I had reported to the NHS wasn’t bruising but a lack of blood supply – my foot was, quite literally, dying.

The recovery process has been agonising. The physio had to break down the poorly healed fibres to restart the healing process from scratch. I won’t sugarcoat it – those procedures were excruciating. I’m surprised nobody called the police at the sound of my screams. It must have sounded like a torture chamber!

Six weeks on, I’m relieved to say I can finally walk again, though the pain and swelling persist, and my mobility is still limited. I remain hopeful that, with the right care and focus, I’ll regain full function. I have to believe I will. I still have too many challenges in life to complete.

Kindness in the Chaos

If there is one thing this journey has taught me, it’s the profound impact of kindness. At every low point, someone was there to lift me up. Friends, acquaintances, and complete strangers stepped in to help me in ways I’ll never forget.

From the close friends who housed, fed, and ferried me around, to new families who welcomed me into their celebrations, the generosity of others became a bright spot in an otherwise difficult chapter.

On my flight from Kathmandu to Delhi, I met a doctor who noticed my struggle and arranged for me to access the airport lounge, providing a moment of peace and comfort between flights.

Later, a man called Eric saw me wrestling with my luggage at Durham train station. Not only did he help me onto the platform and onto the train, but he came back when I reached Birmingham to assist me off. He even ran ahead with my luggage to stop my connecting train from leaving without me.

There are just a few example of the countless people who stepped in when I needed it most. Their compassion and selflessness overwhelmed me with gratitude.

In many ways, this trek wasn’t just about reaching Everest Base Camp – it was about discovering humanity’s capacity for kindness. For that alone, the journey was worth every challenge.

Was it worth it?

Did any part of this story inspire you?

If so, I’d like to ask for your help. The reason I went through all of this – the highs, the lows, the pain, and the pony rides – was to raise money for the most vulnerable children in Nepal. While I haven’t spoken much about them in this story, the work Street Child does is extraordinary. I will share just one stat here.

Breaking the Bonds Project

This project focuses on providing freedom through education and economic empowerment for Musahar girls in Nepal. Musahar’s are traditionally trapped in bonded labour and face extreme economic exclusion. Stigmatisation within the community and at school combine to make the Musahars one of the least educated groups in Nepal.

• 3.8% female literacy rates
• 46% of 15-19 year olds are unable to recognise a single letter
• 62% of 15-19 year olds are unable to add single-digit numbers

The outcome of the project speaks volumes for the work that Street Child does.

• 10,000+ girls aged 10-19 supported
• 4,500+ transitioned into formal schools
• 5,500+ started their own small businesses

You can read more about the work Street Child does in my Street Child article.

Here’s something to think about: as little as £4 a month is enough to change a child’s life. That’s the cost of a coffee or a slice of cake – so little, yet so impactful. Was my effort worth £4?

If you think so, please consider donating. Together, we can make the difference.

Thinking of trekking to Everest Base Camp? Make sure to check out my Complete Guide to Trekking to Everest Base Camp.