Picture it: the Everest Base Camp trek.
It’s an undertaking of almost two weeks trekking in sub-zero temperatures and high altitudes. That’s without mentioning the training beforehand if, like me, you want to try and prepare as best you can. To namedrop “Everest” awes adventurers and those living vicariously. Just attempting to reach Base Camp is a massive achievement.
But you know what no one ever talks about? The flight!
The fastest way to reach Lukla, the starting point for the EBC trek, is to fly from Kathmandu Airport. While my friends exchanged nervous glances, I was more excited than anything as we clambered into a tiny 20-person aeroplane. I gazed excitedly out the window; after all, I had never been in a plane so small! We were able to fly so low above the foothills, I felt mere metres away from the Himalayas undulating below us.
It wasn’t until after we’d disembarked in Lukla that my friends revealed the truth. We’d just survived the most dangerous flight in the world.
In reality, there are a few flights that claim to be “the most dangerous in the world”. However, it’s widely accepted that any flight in or out of Lukla is ranked at the top.
In case you don’t believe me, here are some facts about Lukla Airport:
I cannot tell you how relieved I was that I didn’t know this when we boarded the plane in Kathmandu! I know that thousands of people make the trip every year without incident, but my mind was already racing. My friends showed me pictures of mangled planes on the tarmac or, worse, stories of planes missing the runway altogether. Needless to say, I put this to the back of my mind for the next two weeks. I had enough to worry about on the EBC trek!
Flash forward two weeks, and we were back in Lukla to make the return flight. This time, knowing what I had signed up to, the nerves began to set in.
As if Lukla Airport doesn’t sound sketchy enough, it is also notorious for flight delays due to bad weather. The longest our guide, Parshu, had ever waited in the little Himalayan village was three whole days. That’s even without mentioning the 3500 people that were stranded for weeks in 2011.
Luckily, Parshu had the forethought to book one of the earliest flights on the day we departed, just in case they began to get delayed. Though I was nervous to fly out of Lukla, I was glad when we boarded our plane just after dawn. I was ready to leave the Himalayas, even if it meant risking the most dangerous flight in the world to do so.
The first flight of the day took off successfully, and minutes later we took our place at the top of the runway. I braced myself for the take-off, which I was sure would be the scariest bit.
We had already begun to trundle down the tarmac when a man in a bright orange high-vis came running across the airport, waving furiously at the cockpit. I don’t know about you, but that was not a sight that filled me with much confidence. The man in orange conferred with the pilots for a moment, and then our tiny plane pulled back off the runway.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the flight has been delayed. Kathmandu airport is now closed due to bad weather,” the flight attendant informed us. I couldn’t believe I had psyched myself up for nothing! Groaning resignedly, we all disembarked and returned to the departures lounge.
As we waited in the chilly hall, I tried to be optimistic. I was annoyed that the first plane, which had left just minutes before us, had managed to take off. However, as I voiced this frustration to our guide, and he told me something that gave me some comfort.
Apparently, as Kathmandu Airport was now closed, the first flight would have to redirect to another airport somewhere else in Nepal. And, if they were unable to do that, they would be circling above Kathmandu until it was safe to land. Suddenly I was more than slightly relieved we hadn’t been on that plane. I would much rather be stranded on solid ground than in the air, especially in these tiny, rickety planes.
We took seats near the door and began to wait. Discouragingly, clouds were rolling down from the Himalayas. Soon Lukla’s airport was also shrouded in mist and fog. Spirits dropping, I mentally prepared myself to stay in Lukla for another day and try for a flight the following morning.
Suddenly there was a flurry of movement. Parshu appeared out of nowhere and began ushering us back onto the runway. There was a group of loud Kiwis moving with us, but everyone else stayed in their seats, staring at us in confusion.
“They’re about to close this airport as well!” Parshu told me. “They want one more flight out of here before they do.” And so, in a bit of a rush, we boarded the tiny aeroplane again.
“So,” I confirmed shakily as I buckled my seatbelt, “instead of hurtling off the end of this cliff and hoping to stay airborne in good weather, we’re going to attempt it in fog so thick they’re about to close the airport?”
Parshu nodded grimly, and I began to contemplate certain death. To make matters worse, the flight attendant then announced that Kathmandu Airport was also still closed. Not only were we flying off the edge of the cliff in incredibly bad conditions, but we also had nowhere to go.
The plane began to edge down the runway again, and this time no one stopped us as we picked up speed. I peered down the aisle and between the pilots at the disappearing runway in front of us. As I watched, we careered off the edge of the mountain and into the fog. There was a terrifying dip… and then we were sputtering upwards.
We had made it off the runway in one piece! I’d never been so happy to lose contact with the ground. I was so relieved, I forgot that we were flying through thick fog and had nowhere to go.
Suddenly my friend pointed out that we’d risen above the clouds. They were so low and thick that the pilot needed to fly above them so he could see anything at all.
“Should we be this high in a tiny plane that isn’t pressurised?” my friend called out in fear.
“Er… no!” came the reply from Parshu. “But it’s better than flying low, hitting turbulence and smashing into the mountains!”
I couldn’t believe that those were our two options. They both sounded terrifyingly dangerous, regardless of our pilots being two of the best in the world.
Even above the clouds the turbulence was awful. It was far worse than the outward journey. My friends had their eyes squeezed shut and were pressed back in their seats. I was gripping my seat as if that would save my life if we tumbled into the foothills. Even Parshu, who’d made this flight over 30 times, looked terrified.
Rational thoughts—that I’d survived the flight once or that these were the best pilots in the world—did little to assuage my fear. Every few seconds I would glance back at the flight attendant, trying to read any trace of fear in her. As long as she remained reassuringly collected, I reasoned that we weren’t about to crash and die.
Hilariously, the upbeat Kiwis cramped in the plane with us then began Snapchatting the flight. They seemed to be pumped with adrenaline more than fear, though I don’t know how! I focused on them for the remainder of the flight. The idea that my death would be broadcasted on Snapchat was too bizarre for me to entertain. I swear that me not wanting my death to go viral on social media is what willed us to remain in one piece!
Fortunately, Kathmandu Airport reopened as we were mid-flight. After a terrifyingly turbulent 45 minutes, we touched down in the dusty, smog-filled city. I’ve never exited a plane so fast in my life. In fact, it wasn’t until we’d left the airport altogether that I breathed a sigh of relief.
It seems ironic that the scariest part of trekking the Himalayas was the flight back to Kathmandu. If you’re thinking of making the trek to Everest Base Camp, consider yourself warned! Don’t get me wrong, reaching Base Camp is one of my biggest achievements. But surviving the most dangerous flight in the world—twice!—is definitely also on that list.
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