Everest: beyond the summit
By Harriette Puddy-Jones
When you hear the word “Everest”, you typically envision a giant mountain. Over 8,000 metres high, with a death rate of currently around 1 in 100, it would be strange to consider the trek a conventional holiday. Of course, for the wealthy westerner, the powerful phrase of being able to say “I’ve climbed Everest” carries a certain prestige and is particularly desirable when comparison and competition surface within conversation. Recently, I travelled to Kathmandu to complete the base camp trek with my father, a sort of celebration to commemorate the end of my father’s travels around the world after just over three years. We never intended on summiting the peak, nor did we need to; 12 days of trekking is enough to fulfil my own ‘top trumps’ card! But amongst all the hustle and bustle of the busy routes around the Himalayas, I found a much more impressive story, shaped by the everyday lives of the locals.
After three days of trekking, my father, guide and I arrived at Namche Bazaar, the highest town in the world. Sitting at 3,500 metres, this place is a staging point for completing treks within the Everest region — and somewhere where you can visit the highest Irish pub! We had been hiking for about six hours, and this was our biggest jump in altitude so far, so we were staying in this town for two days to acclimatise. “Just up there,” our guide Saran points towards a flight of small and steep steps. After a long day, we had finally reached our destination: Nirvana lodge, and the home of Kancha Sherpa.Â
The hotel itself is quiet, which seems an unusual perception to have, it being on route for the most famous mountain in the world, but given this was the end of the trekking season, we were becoming used to it. Then, suddenly, Saran stops us as we make our way to check in with the owner. He looks pleased with himself, then proceeds to inform us that we are in the home of the last surviving member of the first 1953 Everest expedition. He’s the owner of the hotel, and we will be having dinner with him, “if that’s ok”. An overwhelming feeling hits me, and as I’m walking around the reception area, I see the entrance of a small kitchen hidden away. A small man is holding his prayer beads, wrapped in a knitted blanket, with a cup of steaming tea in front of him. I feel a couple tears come to my eyes out of pure admiration, and the fact that I’m about to have dinner with a sherpa from the first expedition. After my father checks us in, my guide takes us to the kitchen table, and we are given cups of lemon and ginger tea, but I just stare in awe at Kancha.
It is not a luxury, once-in-a-lifetime experience, but merely a job
At home, we aren’t told the individual stories of the locals of the Everest region, despite the fact many will climb multiple times a year. Saran is consistently completing the base-camp trek and knows the route intimately — the same way you and I know the routes to our local supermarkets, trekking to base camp is just a job for him. When trekking up, you are consistently overtaken by porters and guides carrying heaps of luggage from tourists, as well as supplies like food, water and beer to higher villages. This is the only mode of transport, excluding the various packs of mules loaded with barrels of supplies on either side of their stomach. The porters are all locals of the Everest region, and they seem to have adapted differently to any other human on earth — hiking 30,000 steps a day uphill, at altitude, with about 50kg of luggage on their backs. It’s a feat most people hardly attempt once, let alone every day for a living.
At 92, Kancha explains in broken English his story of 1953. At 19, he ran away from his home to India, to speak to Tenzing Norgay to try and find some work to earn a living, and a few months later was given a couple rupees to join the British expedition. This route was not beaten up at all, and he recalls them navigating the path themselves to reach Everest, and this is the same route used today. Of course, it’s a lot more battered now. He climbed beyond 8,000 metres with no previous mountaineering training, and proceeded to be very active in the Everest region for the next 20 years. Kancha was among a team of 35, and among the final three Sherpas to help Norgay and Hilary to the summit, now known as ‘the Hilary step’. He never actually summited himself during his career, as his wife deemed it too risky, but he still made climbs to the various camps before the final ascent.
Sadly, Kancha passed away in his Kathmandu residence in October 2025, but his story and, others like it are no longer going unnoticed. After retiring from mountaineering, Kancha spent the remainder of his life encouraging his children to branch out of careers centred around climbing Everest, with his two sons now operating hotels, and helping to run social programs and schools. His passing was certainly a great loss, and the story of the first expedition can never be retold from a member themselves. For Kancha, Saran and all the other porters and guides, their lives have centred around this one mountain. It is not a luxury, once-in-a-lifetime experience, but merely a job opportunity stemmed from tourism. Yet, in western cultures, climbing the mountain is what many dream of doing to get away from their jobs.
Leaving Kancha’s home after my encounter with him didn’t feel like we were taking on a trek, but as if we were stepping into history. Walking in his footsteps until we successfully reached base camp on 1st June became a journey etched in memory.
To honour his story, and those like it, is to recognise that Everest transcends its physical scale, and is far bigger than we ever deem it to be.
Image credits: Harriette Puddy-Jones
