Everest Base Camp. I had been dreaming about it for years. You know how some places just live in your head. That melody you can’t quite shake? EBC was one of those places for me.
Now, I know what you are thinking: you are a Nepali, how hard could it be? But here’s the thing: I grew up in central Nepal. Everest is way up northeast. It’s not like I could just hop on a bus after work. Getting there takes time, money, physical fitness, and mental preparation. All the things that somehow never quite aligned. So year after year, the dream stayed just that: a dream.
Until it didn’t.
Here’s the ironic part: it took moving to the US for this dream to actually happen. Six years of living abroad, and suddenly I’m planning a trek to a place that was technically in my “backyard” all along. Life’s funny that way.
The original plan? Go with friends. Reality? They all backed out. Commitments, scheduling conflicts, the usual. But I was stubborn. I was going, period. Then my mom and brother decided to join in, and what started as a potential solo trip suddenly became a family adventure. Honestly? Having them there made it so much better than I’d imagined.
When the Journey to Lukla Didn’t Go as Planned
We planned a 12-day trek. Got everything sorted, or at least we thought so. A few days before departure, the news came: Lukla Airport was closed due to weather. It reopened shortly after our scheduled departure date, but by then the backlog was insane. Everyone who had been stuck during the closure was now fighting for a seat.
Seven days. That’s how long it took for our turn to finally come up. Seven days of checking weather reports, rescheduling plans, and wondering if this was the universe telling me to try again next year. That special kind of torture where you’re packed and ready, but going nowhere. I know, I know, I can be superstitious like that. Maybe spiritual. Maybe both. 😀
Finally (finally!) on the seventh day, the call came. There was a possibility our flight might leave the next morning. We packed up and headed to Ramechhap Airport in Manthali that night.
Getting to Lukla from Manthali
So here’s how it works now: most flights to Lukla, the town that serves as the main gateway to Everest Base Camp, leave from a city called Manthali instead of Kathmandu. They can squeeze in more flights per day when (and this is key) the weather cooperates. And weather in the mountains? It’s the boss. Flights only go in the morning because afternoon winds make it too dangerous. A single cloud in the wrong place, a slight shift in conditions, and everything shuts down. The mountains don’t negotiate. You wait, or you don’t go.
Also, flying to Lukla isn’t like catching a regular flight where you show up two hours early and board on schedule. It’s a gamble. Our agency had called and said the backlog had cleared and there might be a possibility our flight could go that day. Might. Not will, not probably. Might. But if we wanted a shot, we had to get to the airport and wait. So that’s what we did.
We checked in and then… we waited. Seven hours. Seven hours. Every time they made an announcement, everyone would perk up, hopeful, only to sink back into their seats. More waiting. Weather changing by the minute. Delays stacking up. Everyone just sitting there with the same desperate hope: please let our flight be the one that makes it out today. That’s mountain travel for you. You think you’re in charge, but really, you’re just along for the ride.
Seven Hours of Waiting for a Weather Window
Then, out of nowhere, chaos. They called the passengers for our aircraft. Everything moved at lightning speed. The weather window was tiny and closing fast. I remember actually running toward the runway to board the flight, adrenaline pumping, thinking “this is it, we’re going!” when the airport crew suddenly stopped us.
The weather had turned bad again.
My heart sank. But about thirty minutes later, they called us again. This time, no false starts.
We boarded so fast there was barely time to think. The second our seatbelts clicked, the flight attendant started rattling off safety instructions and the plane was already moving. We were literally taking off while she was still talking.
Flying Into Lukla: Landing at Tenzing-Hillary Airport
Okay, now let’s talk about Lukla Airport, also known as Tenzing-Hillary Airport. It’s often called one of the most dangerous airports in the world, and honestly? After seeing it for myself, I get it. Picture this: a 527-meter runway (that’s basically nothing) carved into the side of a mountain, with a sheer mountain wall at one end and a steep drop into the valley at the other.
I’d heard all the stories. Friends who’d flown in described the tiny aircraft, the turbulence that makes people throw up, and that moment when everyone applauds after landing. Not polite appreciation. Genuine relief. We made it. We’re alive.
Here’s my confession: I was way more scared of that flight than the actual 12-day trek. Like, significantly more.
But there was no turning back now. I was officially on a tiny aircraft headed to Lukla with maybe 15 or 16 other passengers, pretending to be much calmer than I actually was.
The Flight to Lukla
I’d done my homework and snagged a seat on the left side of the plane. Apparently that’s where the best views are. Smart move, past me 😀
As we lifted off, my emotions were all over the place. Pure joy that this was really happening. Absolute terror remembering everything I’d read and heard about that landing strip. This weird, surreal feeling of being suspended between the person who’d been dreaming about this and the person actually doing it.
The flight? Twenty minutes. That’s it. But the views those twenty minutes? Beautiful. Green mountains, deep valleys, rivers cutting through the landscape below. I was glued to the window the entire time.
I also remember I was so nervous my hands were shaking, and I didn’t even realize I’d chugged an entire liter of water until the bottle was empty. But my phone was out the whole time, fumbling to capture videos and photos, trying desperately to hold onto something that was already becoming a blur of sensation and memory
Landing at Tenzing-Hillary Airport
And then, the descent. The descent everyone talks about. My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it. The runway appeared below us, impossibly short. I held my breath. The wheels hit. The brakes screamed. We rolled to a stop.
We’d made it. I’d actually made it to Tenzing-Hillary Airport, one of the most dangerous airports in the world.
I exhaled for what felt like the first time in twenty minutes.
Phew.
