Poon Hill, Ten Hours Down, and the Great Taxi Conspiracy

There’s a gap in these pages that I’m not going to pretend isn’t there. The days coming down from base camp — long, leg-wrecking, beautiful — I just didn’t have the energy to write. The views from Ghorepani were worth every blister. I’ll say that much.

We got up early and hiked up to Poon Hill for sunrise. If you ever find yourself in the Annapurna foothills with a functional pair of legs and a functioning alarm clock, do this. The Himalayas at sunrise from Poon Hill are — look, I’ve been trying not to gush in this journal and I’m not going to start now, but: do it.

Then it was ten hours down. Down, down, down. Birethanti to Nayapul. My quads have officially filed a formal complaint and I’ve agreed to review it at a later date.

At Nayapul, Pat decided he was going to bargain the taxi drivers down on price. I want to be careful here because Pat is my friend and I have nothing but affection for the man. But watching him attempt to negotiate against what was clearly a full cartel of mutually agreeable taxi operators was — look, it was entertaining. They had a number. They were going to have that number. The number was not negotiating. Pat bargained with the conviction of a man who has read about bargaining and the taxi drivers accepted his performance with the patience of people who do this every day.

We paid the number.

Got into Pokhara late. Hot shower. Over to the Everest Steak House — my third visit to an establishment called Everest Steak House in Nepal, a pattern I’m now fully committed to — had a steak and a beer and was essentially asleep at the table. I don’t remember getting into bed. I just remember being in it.