Returning home, legs weary and spent from our rapid descent, 8000 ft. since Everest Base Camp, we arrived in Lukla exhausted and a day early. Expecting to escape on an earlier flight, our ignorance surfaced as we learned the reality of such a request. Only three airlines have rights to this airport and only ideal weather grants access. Yetti Airlines held no promises of an early return to Kathmandu. Nightmare rumors of 7 day waits and planes turning back midway were feeding my fears of an extended stay. The next morning, we dragged our feet to the airport and awaited the dispatch, had the planes left the city, would they land, could we go home? By midday the airport’s dilapidated gates were once again locked and we were diverted back to our overcrowded tea houses. San Miguel beer, the consolation prize, was running low. Another sleepless night, cheers and songs culminating from a group of successful Taiwanese climbers tossing back bottles of Rum, I awoke restless and anxious. From the window, a heavy layer of morning fog dampened spirits as the growing number of trekkers waiting for pending flights reconciled their fate. We were stuck another day.

At 10:30am word spread- four planes had left Kathmandu. A warm wind pushed at the fog, allowing a small window of opportunity. Three planes were able to land, ours the auspicious third: Yeti Airlines, embossed with a large green bigfoot bobbled onto the runway, the cargo was emptied along with the new round of virgin trekkers. Moments later they herded our nineteen sweaty bodies, packs and gear into the steel vessel, propellers spinning, we headed down the roadway, cheering.

In the grasses, which are higher than me at this time of year, the guide said we’d notice movement of large animals by the rustling. Yet it was the still grass of animals lying in wait that concerned me.

In the forest, we found the tell-tale tracks of the three toed Indian Rhinoceros and followed them as they trod along a small path. When they wandered off the path into the thick of the forest, we went in the opposite direction.

If I were a tracker, I’d follow the tracks. But I’m not, and our guide is, and he’s still alive. So what do I know?

An hour later we climbed atop a raised, wooden viewing tower and spotted yesterday’s wild male elephant. Arguably more dangerous today due to his unrealized goals from the night before, he looked peaceful and graceful to me.

From the raised station we watched him disappear into the jungle, right in the vicinity of our path. This unnerved the guides so we waited and the clouds grew darker.

Eventually we could wait no longer and with dramatic thunder in the background, we amassed in number, joining forces with two other groups and proceeded into the jungle toward the frustrated beast. Our guides were visibly anxious.

After half an hour of jumping at each snapped twig, we finally saw his tracks cross ours, leading away. Guides scrambled into trees, verified the stillness of the grasses, and we proceeded to track monkeys and deer.

It was then, deeper in the forest and on foot and at the furthest point from our lodging that the canopy thickened, the clouds blackened, and the rains came down hard.

The students were pissed. Three months ago the government promised them books, pens, and paper. Three months later, they still had none and it was the week before exams. So they dragged trees and rocks across the road and stopped traffic.

Our bus company simply re-routed their trip, dropped us off on the side of the road, and shrugged as they pulled away. We crawled atop a local bus and endured five more hours of crossing picket lines on foot, in taxis, on buses, each one dead ending and sending us forward to figure out how best to go forward, toward Chitwan National Park.

At one point our cab was waved into the mob by a few authoritative students, but was stopped twenty feet later, by student intervention physically blocking and pounding on the vehicle. Were forced to pay up, get out, and start walking again, concerned for our taxi’s ability to extricate himself from the melee.

Finally, at sunset, we sank into riverside chairs in the national park and drank a well earned beer while a wild male elephant sauntered across the river in what would be a late night attempt to break into the elephant breeding center down the road from our lodging.

He was categorically denied access and the locals said that makes him dangerous.

That makes sense to me.

The next morning, after everyone else flew out of Lukla, we sat in an empty lodge, eating breakfast, awaiting our turn. Sitting next to us was Sir Edmund Hillary’s son and granddaughter.

Hillary is a local hero, not only for first summiting Everest, but for the dozens of schools and hospitals he built for the Sherpa people, after 60 plus children signed a petition, asking him to build them a school.

The “house wife” presented the granddaughter with a Sherpa gown to be worn at a ceremony later that week. Peter, the son, was taking pictures and I offered to take one of the whole family. He appreciated the offer and I snapped away.

It was my first celebrity photo shoot. Albeit on his camera.

On the second descent day we nursed our ailments from the previous day’s twelve hour hike with dal baat and chang (the rice wine).

We drank a lot of chang that morning.

Back in Lukla, we were greeted with chocolate cake, wine and showers which our tight budget on the ascent excluded. We never skimped on ever-present Nepalese popcorn, an indulgence at every teahouse.

Our descent was so aggressive, we arrived a day early, but so did the rains and it wasn’t possible to fly back just yet. The next day was quite cloudy, but we were on the first flight so if any plane came in, we’d be on it when it returned. So we waited and one came.

It was a little twenty seater and mine was right behind the pilot. Our little plane bounced along the runway, down the hill, and toward the cliff we flew off.

The pilots window was down and I could feel the fresh breeze on my face, though it didn’t change the fact that my clothes still smell like smoked yak dung.

Nine days later, visiting the lodges and familiar with the trails the books expeditions took, we marched into Everest Base Camp. We stood at 17,400 feet in a city of tents. It’s Everest’s welcome mat and we rang the doorbell.

It’s a place of dreams and all their varied outcomes.

I first intended to go to India a few years ago, but instead fell hard for a remarkable woman and cut my trip short. But it wasn’t meant to be and two strong personalitie soon found themselves frustrating one another. One year later I was again dreaming of India.

In the Khumbu Himalaya of Nepal, prayer flags, prayer wheels, and mani walls line the paths I trek. As is the Buddhist custom, they are always passed on the left and as I encounter the wheels, I give them a spin, and for each one think of a loved one, past or present, in the winds of the Himalaya.

In Tengboche, I visit a monastery and spend an afternoon in the cold room at twelve thousand feet, open doors, monks bowed and chanting, accompanied by occasional music. I watch from the dark as streams of light silhouette the rhythmically gyrating saffron robes and the air is thick with incense and frosted breath.

It is peaceful, the chanting, and I close my eyes, sitting cross-legged on the carpets in the corner and wish I could lie down and fall asleep here; for it to never stop.

Acclimitization days we hike packless, generally climbing 1200 feet or so, then return, eat, sleep, and wait for the next days climb. After each rest, dahl baht and tomato egg drop soup, we are all psyched for another day of climbing; to take the next step.

Aside from that anticipation, it’s barren. From the menu, to the accommodations, to the landscape. It’s cold, windy, and colorless. But the mountains are tremendous, this place is big. It’s a place of dreams, when sleep comes and even a midnight bathroom trip is a heart racer.

Regardless, today was a bit exhausting as we whipped around town in cabs and on foot, following Perwa Sherpa as we raced along to finalize permits and tickets, secure the last minute cold weather gear, and gather with the mountaineers around a map.

Tomorrow is the twelfth anniversary of Jon Krakauer’s summit in the book, Into Thin Air. We’ve got the book and a six a.m. Yeti Airlines flight into the Everest region.

We ain’t comin’ out for twelve days.