Words by Kirra Balmanno. Photography by Gabriel Tarso.

“Bistarai, bistarai.”

A phrase you’ll hear often in the Himalayas.

The Sherpas smile and share their wisdom.

“Slowly, slowly.”

Having visited Nepal to run for the past seven years, perhaps this is something I should accept by now. But I don’t like to be limited by others' reality. I’m curious to see what’s possible today. 

The distance of 55km (around 34 miles) is short from an ultrarunner’s perspective, but it's the altitude here that serves up the curveball. 

Success – and survival – depends on the body’s reaction to this altitude disparity. On an acclimatization mission, the doctor in the village of Dingboche, at 4410m (14,468ft), who checked the healing frostbite on my toe warned, “this isn’t a good idea”.

I have a healthy respect for the altitude. Helicopters flying through the Khumbu valley every fifteen minutes or so are a constant reminder of those who fall victim to ‘low O’ and are flown back to low altitude. 

I look up. Thousands more meters of mountain tower above, the highest peak being Chomolungma – the Tibetan name for Mount Everest translating to ‘Mother Goddess of the World’. She stands at 8,848m (29,031ft). And already here at 5000m (16,404ft) – it’s definitely not kindergarten. 

The easier I go up, the better I feel when I reach base camp elevation. I’ve learned this over many multi-day mountain runs here in Nepal.

Running into the clouds

We all have the mental strength to push through discomfort. Running in the Himalayas is a powerful lesson in equanimity. To embrace all of the pain and pleasure. Running long and high, without pushing any of it away or holding on to any of it, allows me to reach a heightened state of awareness – the flow state.

Running at these high altitudes, the risk of hypothermia and hypoxia are real. Comfort dissipates at a corresponding rate to the reduction of oxygen molecules in the air. Breathing adds itself to the list of challenges. The food gets monotonous. Hygiene in the teahouses – mountain lodges dotted along the trekking routes – falls. Everyone begins to feel the suck of energy. Headache, nausea and the hack of the ‘Khumbu cough’ – named after the valley that leads up to Everest and triggered by low humidity and temperatures – are regular unwanted guests around the teahouse table. And still, I love it. 

The choice to run solo has perks. There’s no one here to save me. Complaints are useless. I stop wasting energy on things outside of my control and focus on staying safe, healthy and appreciating each moment.

The road to the trails

I’ve tried to run all the way from Kathmandu to Everest Base Camp. This bypasses the infamous flight to Lukla – the ‘most dangerous airport in the world’. Alternative transport is an all-day jeep rave to bring trekkers to the start of the trails. Nepali pop blasts from the stereo for 12-hours straight. Buddha and Ganesh bobble around on the dashboard as it speeds past skeletons of half crumpled buses, overlooking a one-thousand meter drop. 

Traveling on-foot turned out to be similarly treacherous, beginning with an off-camber, multi-day road ultra. I ran with the traffic and pollution straight out of Kathmandu. When the first views of the Himalayas opened up and floated like clouds in the sky it felt unreal. 

My plans had to change because of the dangerous traffic and pollution on the roads. The non-existent road shoulder left me with a swollen left knee and time to meditate on arbitrary goals that didn’t serve me or my respiratory system. The smell of burning plastic still lingers, months later.

I returned to my native Australia to revise my goal, recuperate my knee, and air out my lungs. Then I started again. I just love the mountains and that's where I should be running. 

Rather than set out from Kathmandu, I chose to journey from Lukla to Everest Base Camp.

Why I run in the Himalayas

My first running expedition in the Himalayas began with a solo run around the Annapurna Circuit, some 170km and six days – inclusive of a high pass of 5416m – Thorung La. 

I remember dropping into the Aid Post in Manang (3550m) at 3:00 p.m. to listen to the daily altitude talk given by the doctor there. I didn’t have any prior experience at these kinds of heights and there was a lot to learn. 

Today, I understand better how my body responds to moving fast(ish) at high altitude and exactly what I need to carry in order to stay alive, with all toes intact. My pack is lighter and more precise and I carry calorie-dense fuel on the trails – I don’t want to think about how many Oreos I’ve consumed over the years. Each time is like a science experiment to tweak the experience and go faster, return healthier. 

I kissed the ground at the end of that initial expedition. It finished with an exciting flight back to Pokhara that shined a light on what a precious gift it is to be alive. 

Nepal and her mountains have a way of injecting aliveness by placing us in conditions that help realize our own mortality. The humbling of the altitude, the kindness of the people, the regular facing of potential death through wild mountain flights and barely avoiding hypothermia keeps me in the moment.   

Feelings are heightened, gratitude is amplified, my mind is expanded. An invitation for tea, a fleeting ray of sunshine or a text from a friend can trigger an emotional waterfall. That’s why I return here each year to train at glorious altitudes in my favorite place – above the tree-line, racing ultras and stretching my mind in all directions. 

Journey to Everest Base Camp

Kathmandu is a hypercolor microcosm saturating the senses. I leave my hotel and pass through honking horn melodies as traffic brushes past. I sidestep to miss a dog sleeping in the middle of the street. The same man tries to sell me a fifth flute as I walk past again. Prayer flags float meditatively in the wind, oblivious to the chaos going on below.

An intense concoction of incense, fumes and dust thickens the air, hits my nostrils and coats  my throat with a swallow. I pass swathes of spices and piles of marigold lining the street. Distracted by a handful of monks reciting their prayers, I duck just in time as a monkey jumps over my head, swinging from tree to temple.

After stocking up on emergency Snickers bars, I pick my mode of transport to Lukla.

On the other side of the flight, the chaos dissipates and an enormous peace reverberates throughout my body. Buffalo are replaced by yaks, garbage with snow, and the dense heat with blistering cold. Anxiety transforms into healthy excitement for the adventure ahead. Whether you’re aiming to summit Mount Everest, trek to Gokyo Ri or send it (complete the route) from Lukla to Everest Base Camp; welcome to the gate of the Himalayas.

Lukla to Everest: The Push

The day of the send: 5:00 a.m. I sit at the empty dining table in the Khumbu Resort in Lukla, sipping a black coffee, bouncing my foot to the beats of Fred Again, looking forward to a transformative day ahead. 

Unlike most of my teahouse runs in Nepal, this one was going to be a real push. I set my intention for the day to ‘just try’ and let go of perfectionism. 

Bistarai, bistarai

Fast-forward to Gorak Shep. Well into this attempt to cover the 55km route, I sit at the teahouse, my head cupped in gloved hands. I’m 5164m (16,942ft) above sea level and just 5km from Everest Base Camp. 

Aware of my heart, now having a rave in my throat, I’m in the corner, propped up against a cabinet of Pringles, staring blankly at the floor. My heart beats rapidly for a suspicious amount of time even now as I cease and desist.

A metaphorical angel on one shoulder urges me to continue my quest to explore my limits and make it all the way to ‘The Rock’ at Everest Base Camp.

The angel on my other shoulder is more self-preserving. It reminds me of the perils of altitude – it can take a few hours to catch-up when one pursues such a quick ascent. I agree with the first angel, but the second angel wins. 

Three hundred meters (3229ft) of vert to go over a gradual inclining moraine seems so close for the mind and extremely far for the body. The temperature outside is -14°C, inside -13°C. It’s 6:00 p.m. 

Each time that my mind motivates my body to get up, I land back down again with tachypnoea – fast shallow breathing – inhaling like a fish that’s been plucked out of water. That makes sense here with 44 percent less oxygen in the air than at sea level and a body that’s been pushing all day. 

I checked my blood oxygen level (SpO2) with a pulse oximeter again. Still falling, 84 percent, now 70 percent. 

SpO2 can continue to drop for a few hours after stopping as mine was, making it dangerous to continue with my current lethargy and nausea. I’m thankful I know myself well enough in these conditions that I can push my limits as far as possible.

At that moment in Gorak Shep, I called it. The 12-hour playlist titled ‘The Push’ and compiled by friends for today’s send will still be there tomorrow. I hit stop on my GPS. The decision is final.  

I’m happy. I had found my limit today and despite all of the unpleasant sensations in my body, I feel truly alive. What a trip.

Everest Base Camp

After a cold and sleepless night at Gorak Shep; slowly, slowly, I focus on putting one foot in front of the other up to The Rock at Everest Base Camp. The feeling of altitude sickness still present along with immense awe, as I stand small, surrounded by magnificent peaks. 

I believe that the greatest places on earth are not only defined by their beautiful aesthetic but by the effort it takes to reach them. 

I’m immensely grateful for the power of endurance running and the Himalayas – a medium for beautiful connections, peeling away limitations and accessing greater depth and joy. My ego is starved, my soul is fed. I feel the entitlement to nothing, but appreciative of everything.