Himalayan Highs : Confessions of a Nepal Novice : Friends Were Against It, but Society Writer Jeannine Stein Signed On for the Ultimate Getaway, a Trek to 17,000 Feet, Where Few Fax Machines Dare Go

I am not a big backpacker. In fact, the last time I went backpacking was . . . does a nature hike in junior high count?

Yet I spent my last vacation on a two-week trek in the Himalayas, picking off leeches, not washing my hair for days, going to the bathroom just about anywhere and climbing to nearly 18,000 feet.

I’m still not a big backpacker. But I survived, and had the time of my life.

The idea came to me while I was sitting in my travel agent’s office a few months ago, wondering what I should do with my 45 days of accrued vacation time.

Tahiti? Too much down time at the beach.

Europe? Been there. Done it.

I wanted a true adventure, someplace where no one has heard of hair extensions or yam chips. I wasn’t looking for a spiritual awakening, I was looking for a place with no phones.

I looked at a map on the wall and my eyes fixed on Nepal. Hmmm . . . a lot of yaks, not a lot of phones. I wasn’t looking for some great epiphany, like some who make the pilgrimage to this small country tucked between India and Tibet. But trekking offered a great physical challenge, a wonderful way to see an incredibly beautiful country, and there are few fax machines in the Himalayas.

While I was convinced that I had found the perfect vacation, my friends and family didn’t agree.

“ Nepal ?!?!” they screamed. “Why Nepal? What are you going to do, hike in your high heels?” . . . “You know, you’re going to be bored there. They don’t have any malls.” . . . “Where are you going to plug in your blow dryer?” . . . “What if you get a brain embolism?” . . . “Why don’t you just go to France and stay in nice hotels?”

Maybe they had a point. Check the title. Times Society Writer. I had a reputation to think about.

But really, I thought, what was the big deal? You buy a pair of boots, you walk a lot. You sleep in a sleeping bag on the ground. Couldn’t be any worse than the four years I spent on my futon with the fetal-position depression in it.

By the time I decided to go it was late August, and I had to hustle since the fall trekking season would be over in November. I only had a few weeks to research the various trekking companies, make my travel arrangements, get enough inoculations to ward off any disease known to mankind and spend hundreds of dollars on hiking and camping gear. Somehow I pulled it all together.

A Times editor who travels to Nepal and Bhutan as often as some people go to San Francisco gave me the names of some reputable companies that arrange trekking tours. (There are many around the United States, but you can also hook up with trekking groups in Nepal, hire your own porters or just go it completely alone. This being my first time I decided not to tempt fate.) After looking through several brochures, it seemed by best bet time- and money-wise was the Berkeley-based Himalaya company, and I chose their “Annapurna short-circuit,” a two-week trek halfway around the Annapurna range. It was graded as a difficult trek and recommended for fit, experienced trekkers. We’d be climbing up to 17,700 feet at a pass called Thorong-La, but I figured that my intense workouts could compensate for any lack of backpacking skills.

My obsessive-compulsive training consists of a mixed bag of high-impact aerobics, step classes, weight training, running (eight miles), stair climber and stationary bicycle; I do various combinations of those for one to two hours a day.

Besides, I had heard that many men and women in their 60s and 70s had no trouble at all trekking around Nepal. At 31, I thought I could handle it.

For the price of admission, which in this case was $2,000 for the trek and $1,500 air fare, the tour company arranged air travel to Nepal via Bangkok, hotel accommodations in Katmandu, the trek equipment, the trek leader (a university-educated Nepalese man who spoke English and had trekking experience); a guide, Ang Dawa (a Nepalese man experienced in managing details while on the trek, such as finding the trail, picking out a place to camp, etc.); an assistant guide, Rinzi Sherpa; porters (who carried the tents, sleeping bags and duffels and set them up each night), and cooks, so all we had to carry was a day pack and water.

My fellow trekkers and I met up in Katmandu, where we had a couple of days to sightsee before starting out on the trek. We stayed at the Hotel Kathmandu, a bit away from the main part of town but nice accommodations.

There was Karen, 31, a former office manager from Australia; Tim, in his 20s, an attorney in the process of moving from New Jersey to Phoenix, and Steve, fiftysomething, a business consultant from Connecticut.

Steve and I talked by phone before the trip, but I was still worried the four of us might not get along; such a small group, would we be sick of being in each other’s faces? Happily, we hit it off immediately.

We had dinner in a Western-style restaurant that night in Thamel, an area of Katmandu with a lot of English-language bookstores, restaurants and inns.

Later we met with William Ma, whose Katmandu-based company Himalaya worked with to arrange the trek. He told us we’d be starting out at about 2,000 feet and climb to 17,700 feet; the terrain would change dramatically from lush, jungle-like territory to pine forests to mountains to arid plains. Weather permitting, we might get some great views of the Himalayas.

Very early the next morning we took a five-hour, hot, sticky van ride west from the hotel to the start of the trail, which was just east of the town of Pokhara. The gorgeous landscape of rice paddies and hills compensated for the rough roads pitted with potholes the size of Yugos. Also, it happened that several of the villagers were slaughtering goats that day, and Tim and Steve insisted on stopping to see one done. Karen and I looked the other way.

Still, the country was unbelievably gorgeous in a “Lost Horizon” kind of way, with lush stepped rice fields intersected by streams, and miles of soft green hills.

We only hiked about two hours the first day, but it was muggy, I was wearing long pants and, by the time we got to camp, I was completely drenched in sweat. Still, enthusiasm got me up the next day before sunrise, and after breakfast we set off for what was probably one of the most exhausting days of my entire life.

In fact, the first few days of the trek were all exhausting. That’s because we were off the main trail (the decision of our trek leader and guide) and often scrambling up and down steep hills on tiny trails, or crossing a river with jagged rocks at the bottom. One day we climbed up a mountain for a total of seven hours. That’s like taking seven step classes in a row in a muggy jungle with the sun beating down on you every minute. I drank as much water as I could but nothing seemed to quench my insatiable thirst. My legs and back were sore, but luckily I was relatively free of foot blisters. At 8 p.m. I fell into a dead sleep. The benefits to our circuitous route were that we were in an area that wasn’t heavily trekked. In fact, the first few days we only saw two other hikers. Sometimes villagers would look at us warily as we passed through, but “Namaste” (the standard Nepalese greeting), said with a smile, was usually a good ice-breaker.

We’d usually get to camp around dusk; the porters would set up our yellow pup tents (two people per), a dining tent and the all-important latrine tent (though sometimes it was easier just to go off in the woods). Once we had unpacked and set out our sleeping bags there would be hot tea and store-bought biscuits to boost our blood sugar. Dinner would consist of fresh popcorn or crackers, soup and various combinations of potatoes, rice, noodle dishes, vegetables, fried bread and various lamb dishes. Lunch included canned tuna, bread, cheese, fresh fruit and even pizza. Breakfast was oatmeal, pancakes, granola or cereal. What we had depended on where we were, and what fresh meat and produce was available--usually lamb and potatoes, cabbage, tomatoes, cucumbers, cauliflower, apples and oranges. Of course, the higher we climbed and the more remote we got, the more limited our menus. Still, we never went hungry and the food was exceptional.

Around Halloween, Steve even managed to buy a pumpkin from a local farmer, carve it and place a candle inside. Our Nepalese crew loved it.

When we hit the main trail the villages became larger, we ran into more trekkers in groups and alone, and we also saw more evidence of civilization: garbage along the trail and massive deforestation.

Most of the trekkers we met seemed sensitive enough about the environment that they were careful not to toss trash on and around the trail. Still, with so many hikers going through this area (last year nearly 55,000 people trekked Nepal), it was just a matter of time before garbage started piling up. From talking with villagers, we gleaned that there were some, if few, programs dealing with that, as well as reforesting the areas that had been razed for firewood and wood for building. We and most of the trekkers we encountered were very careful not to leave garbage anywhere, but from the looks of parts of the trail, not everyone was as ecology-minded.

It took a few days to develop a rapport with the guides and porters, probably due to shyness and the language barrier. Their ages ranged from 15 up to more than 60, and we were amazed at their ability to carry a huge load on their backs and maneuver the same trails we did--while wearing flip-flops.

We developed a friendship with many of them. The Sherpa, whom we nicknamed Orange Man because of the bright orange T-shirt he wore, was especially kind. Whenever I would slip or fall, he’d miraculously be right there to pick me up.

He even picked off the leeches.

Yes, leeches.

Several friends who had trekked here before assured me that since this was post-monsoon season, the leeches would have gone off for their annual leech vacations. But a few had decided instead to wait for us.

I have battled mammoth Texas cockroaches, even taken out one or two with my bare hands. But leeches are a different story. As we crossed several streams in the course of a day, the leeches would burrow into our socks and attach themselves to our legs for a quick breakfast or midafternoon snack.

And since I would fall into the streams about five or six times a day, it gave the leeches even more of an opportunity to get up close and personal with me.

When I first felt a little sting near my ankle, I stopped, pulled my sock down and saw a few of the little nasty, shiny black creatures searching for the mother lode vein that would make them swell up as fat as a slug.

At first I didn’t deal with it well. I just stood there screaming, stomping my feet and yelling expletives. Then Orange Man would come to my rescue, laughing and pick the little buggers off. After a couple of days, I got more used to handling them, but not much. The fact that they didn’t cause anything more than a little itch was small consolation.

Then, on day four, I came down with a fever of 104 and a case of diarrhea so bad . . . well, take it from me.

As I lay in my tent with a throbbing head and a death wish, my bigger worry was that I’d slow down the group. We’d already come so far, and I didn’t want to be the one to throw us off schedule.

Luckily, the fever broke that night and although I was nauseous for a couple of days after, I was well enough to keep on going. I pretty much had to. There wasn’t a bus I could catch to take me back to Katmandu. (If there had been a real emergency, we could have called for help via ham radio).

When we started hitting higher elevations, the leeches went away, but we were faced with new challenges. Cold was one. Lack of oxygen was another.

The trek was structured to allow a couple of days to acclimatize, and with the help of altitude-sickness medication, the high altitude wasn’t deadly. I was careful not to complain about the cold too much, even though my hands would periodically become numb and I couldn’t hold on to my walking stick. I didn’t want my trek companions to think I was some California wimp.

The day we climbed to 17,700 feet, we awoke at 2 a.m. and got on the trail two hours later; if we started after sunrise, strong winds might keep us from making it over the pass.

I don’t think I had ever been this cold in my life. My breath condensed and formed a layer of ice on my jacket. I had to stop every few yards and blow my nose, which ran continuously. My hands and feet were frozen solid, and I could have used a couple of hits of oxygen. Orange Man offered to carry my pack, but I refused. I wanted to do this on my own.

When we finally reached the top of the pass, the feeling of elation was overwhelming. I had done it.

Which brings me to the Big Point: Even on the worst day, when I had sweated out every drop of moisture in my body and was sore enough to be put into traction, there were always rewards.

Sometimes it would be a glimpse of the Himalayas, looking so perfect it seemed they were painted on the sky.

Other times it would be interacting with the local people, like the time we were followed by a gaggle of little girls who gathered around us and shyly touched our skin, clothes and hair, then taught us Nepalese words.

Or the time, early in the trek when going through a small village during a festival, that we got to ride on a wooden Ferris wheel, hanging on for dear life and screaming and laughing at the same time.

When it turned cold, we’d often seek out a village tea house, where locals come to eat, drink and talk. We’d try the native brews such as chhang (which I found vile), or some pan-fried yak (quite good).

In Manang, we visited a centuries-old monastery, where the sun filtered in from a skylight, illuminating dusty prayer books and hundreds of Buddha statues that lined the walls, and we listened to the sing-song intonations of Buddhist prayers.

A couple of times we bathed in a river of fast-running icy glacier water, which felt fantastic after eight hours of hiking.

I couldn’t have had better traveling companions than Steve, Tim and Karen. Almost every night at dinner we would laugh so hard we couldn’t even eat. Steve and Tim would relentlessly tease Karen and me about any number of things, or we would trade stories about our jobs, homes, families.

When we wanted some privacy we’d separate, but when one of us was in need of something--anything--someone would go out of their way to provide it. We shared our clothes, our candy bars, our aspirin, bandages, everything. When I was delirious with my fever, Karen kept cold cloths on my head. When I was too weak to carry my pack, Tim and Orange Man carried mine along with theirs, and they never complained.

Even though we had had some problems with our trek leader (it seemed at times that he didn’t know where we were headed, said things like, “Don’t worry about those leeches, they’re inactive,” and often berated me for not walking correctly), we learned to tolerate him. There was so much else going on.

On the last night of the trek, we camped behind a lodge in the town of Jomosom, from where we’d catch a plane to Pokhara, then back to Katmandu. We ate dinner in the lodge that night, and the cook, Temdi Sherpa, had prepared a special cake and had written, “Happy Your Trekkers.” Tim had gotten some strong apricot brandy (made locally) to share with the crew, and after dinner someone found some Western dance music and the place became an impromptu disco.

It was hard saying goodby to our guides and porters the next morning; they seemed sorry to see us go, too (they would hike home to their various villages).

When we landed in Pokhara the warm sun felt great and we were all dying for a shower. We had half a day to sightsee and shop before flying back to Katmandu, and then home. Tim, Steve, Karen and I all agreed we would one day be back. Our appetites had just been whetted; we had much more exploring to do.

GUIDEBOOK

Tracking the Trekkers

Getting there: Both Thai Airlines (connecting in Bangkok) and Singapore Airlines (connecting in Singapore) fly from Los Angeles to Katmandu without a change of carriers. Both are extremely long flights. The Thai flight, for example, is 20 hours or more to Bangkok, usually an overnight in Bangkok, and about four hours on to Katmandu. (Other airlines fly LAX-Katmandu with various changes of carriers en route.) Round-trip coach fares range from about $1,600 to just over $1,900 until Sept. 1; Sept. 1-Nov. 30, fares drop to $1,575-$1,800. If you’re booking through a tour company, they can arrange air travel. Peak trekking seasons are spring and fall.

Papers: You’ll need a passport and visa, the latter available at the airport in Katmandu, and a trekking permit, also available in Nepal.

Tour companies: Many U.S. companies specialize in treks that range from one-week hikes of minimum difficulty to rigorous, longer trips. Expedition companies generally are candid about the arduousness of routes; they won’t try to talk you into something you’re not ready for.

Once you’ve decided on a trek and company, ask to be hooked up with someone who has hiked in the region before (trekking companies usually keep clients on file) to get more details on what to expect and what to pack. If the ages of your trek-mates matters to you, ask who else has signed up.

Some companies that arrange Himalayan treks:

* Himalaya, 1900 Eighth St., Berkeley, Calif. 94710, (800) 777-8735. This is the company through which I booked my trip, and I would use them again.

* Innerasia Expeditions, 2627 Lombard St., San Francisco 94123, (800) 777-8183.

* Mountain Travel/Sobek, 6420 Fairmount Ave., El Cerrito, Calif. 94530, (800) 227-2384.

* Wilderness Travel, 801 Allston Way, Berkeley 94710, (800) 247-6700.

Recommended reading: Stephen Bezruchka’s “Trekking in Nepal” (The Mountaineers, sixth edition 1991) is the definitive guide. “Insight Guides: Nepal” (Apa Publications, third edition 1991) is a literary and pictorial introduction to the country.

FOOD: From Tibetan dumplings to chile-fried duck to American-style pancakes, Katmandu restaurants serve up sophisticated, diverse cuisine. L17