Mt. Fansipan

Lounging Lizard
I've just returned from ascending Mt. Fansipan, the highest mountain in Vietnam at 3143m (that's over twice the height of Ben Nevis) and I'm totally stoked.

The tour group I booked the climb with described the climb as a 'trek'. Now either we're dealing with a linguistically challenged translator or else someone with a wicked sense of humour. The climb could not be called a trek; it involved ascending over 1500m in a little under eight hours in total.

This is not the domain of 'trekking'.

It is the domain of climbing. And remaining in that hunched chimp state even when the path shallows because you're so knackered!

We set off around ten in the morning and the first twenty minutes was like a scene from 'The Sound of Music'; gentle rolling hills, pretty streams and almost skipping along the path

Then we reached the foot of the mountain.

Conversation ended as it was energetically too wasteful and my focus became utterly consumed with the next step ahead; where to tread, or place a hand. Looking up the path was an utterly pointless thing to do because there was no visible peak to attain, and doing so only depressed the body further.

After an hour we stopped for lunch (I think our guide was being kind) and we chatted with a few fellow climbers. Some were headed down. Some up. It was easy to tell who was who. People with a look of fear on their faces were going up. People with a look of schadenfreude were going down.

Our guide, Tau, smokes because it's too easy otherwise!
They really laid it on thick: 'You think this is bad? Wait till you get a bit further.' We didn't need to hear that.

Back to the task in hand. The body goes into autopilot and you become hyper aware of the stresses and strains on your body. The pulse in your ears hammering away at a very unhealthy tempo; your breathing ragged and deep, the sound of your footsteps on root or rock. Very weird Zen like sensation. The hours go by quick but the moments last ages. Finally arrived at base camp around three. Feelings of happiness, but also trepidation about the following day. Your mind relays the quotes you've heard: 'The last hour on the second day is the worst'. In bed by nine, body fighting to recuperate.

Awake early. Stuffed full of energy in banana and chocolate pancake form; by the third one you feel sick but you don't want to burn up three quarters of the way up the mountain so you eat anyway.

Leave camp at eight thirty. Feeling pretty good. Mainly because all the stuff that I stupidly decided to carry up to base camp (books? like I've got the enegry to read, spare clothes? luxury, toiletry bag? don't even bother) could be left behind and I could climb light (camera, water and jacket sufficed). Again the Zen like state.

And suddenly I'm on the summit looking down over Vietnam and China, and over the mountains in the distance, Laos. Fantastic.

Planning the descent...
Coming down is a different kind of punishment. Not so physically demanding in terms of stamina and endurance, but a mental resilience is needed. One false step and you could be over the edge. Every footfall is deliberate and careful. Knees take a hammering as each step down jars. The route down amazes; did I really climb this far, and this steeply. It's hard to believe. Much rejoicing at the base camp.

I know a better answer to why people climb mountains now; not because they're there. But because you test yourself to the limits. Bring on the Himalyas in Nepal!

Anyone want to donate a flag?