NB Lama Jigme
Television, print, and online news are frequently filled with stories and records of mountain climbers. Almost every day, there’s a new update. One day, a young female climber was sharing her recent mountaineering experience with a renowned journalist.
“…Wow, such an achievement at such a young age…!”
The young woman beamed with pride as the curious elderly journalist continued asking questions.
But gradually, her expression turned somber. “…But when I set off to climb mountains, my family starts worrying long before I leave.
…They wonder whether I’ll return or not…”
And sure enough, a few days later, another piece of tragic news emerges. An American climber, the first of the season, has lost their life on Everest.
Condolences pour in from both acquaintances and strangers.
Shortly after, another report surfaces—an avalanche has claimed the lives of several Nepalis, along with a Canadian doctor, from another expedition group.
The sympathy grows even stronger.
“Poor souls! I wonder what state their families—parents and children—must be in now!”
But why do people take such risks, I wondered.
Once again, the news and newspapers are flooded with celebratory headlines:
“…Congratulations, Nims Dai!
…Congratulations, Kami Sherpa Dai!
…For the historic success.”
Another group of women has also summited multiple peaks above 8,000 meters.
“…Congratulations to the sisters!”
From rural municipalities to foreign lands, from the federal capital to distant countries, there’s buzz, honor, and recognition. These are the times of consumerism and glamour; with fame comes money too.
“…Fear ends where victory begins!
…Drink this beverage, and become a successful person.”
From beverages to apparel, watches, cars, and real estate—advertisements feature climbers’ photos everywhere. Videos play, and they are hailed as role models.
But what impact does mountaineering itself truly have?
The first successful Everest climber, the world-renowned Edmund Hillary, writes about his experience during the climb:
“…I was utterly exhausted and acutely aware of the long and perilous descent that lay ahead. I didn’t feel any overwhelming sense of joy at that moment. But as the reality of our achievement began to sink in, I felt a calm flame of satisfaction within me—a quiet but more powerful sense of fulfillment than I had ever felt atop any other mountain summit.
…Below us lay the famous North Col and the East Rongbuk Glacier, where earlier British Everest expeditions had made history with their courage and endurance. My thoughts wandered back thirty years, to Mallory and Irvine, who had lost their lives on the mountain, and to Charles Evans and Tom Bourdillon, who had pushed themselves to the brink of exhaustion. I remembered George Lowe and Gregory, who had endured the terrifying isolation they left behind, and finally, Tenzing’s triumphant smile atop the summit…
…And thus, our expedition came to an end…”
However, Hillary’s feat wasn’t much of a topic in the Himalayan villages until the Western media widely covered the news. Saying, “I climbed to the top of the mountain,” in a Himalayan village isn’t considered groundbreaking—at least not back then.
But when he devoted himself to uplifting the educational and economic standards of the Sherpa community and Nepal as a whole, his fame and respect grew over time in the Himalayan regions.
Reading the accounts of Hillary and other climbers, even just through photos and diaries, I felt like I was climbing Everest along with them. On the trail, frozen bodies of climbers who had died and couldn’t be retrieved marked the path like eerie signposts.
Alongside the climbers came waste—trash, human excrement, and urine.
Years later, Nepal’s pioneering tourism entrepreneur and mountaineer, Sonam Sherpa, became the first Nepali to complete the climb of all seven highest peaks. Upon returning from Everest’s summit, he wrote in an article:
“Thirty years ago, when I spent many days at Everest Base Camp during my climb, the camp was pristine. Today, it is on the brink of collapse.
…The Khumbu Glacier faces its greatest threat from unregulated tents, human waste, and urine. For years, feces and urine have been accumulating there. This poses a significant danger not just to Everest’s environment but also to the communities downstream who rely on the melted waters of the Dudh Koshi River…”
Meanwhile, the government’s objective is to bring five times as many tourists to Nepal, claiming it benefits tourism across the country. Whether or not effective measures follow remains a question.
So, how can the snow on the summits and the environment be preserved amidst this? How sustainable is this approach?
Nepal cannot afford to say no to tourists or halt tourism altogether. But it is also no longer the time to turn a blind eye to environmental destruction. Everyone must contribute, in whatever way they can, to address these challenges.
Amidst these reflections, I once traveled to Mount Kailash and Western Nepal. Let’s talk a bit about that.
Even here, there is a desire to explore the mountains, but the competition lies in how many times one has circumambulated the sacred mountain, not in summiting its peak.
Pilgrims chant mantras as they walk around Kailash, refining their inner selves while rivers, valleys, and mountains resonate with their voices day and night. But no one desires to stand atop its summit.
Those of us who live close to the mountains are well aware of their beauty. We are also acutely aware of the risks involved in traversing snow and ice. Perhaps that’s why I have never had the desire—or let’s say the courage—to climb to the summit of a mountain.
The pilgrims to Mount Kailash alone sustain a significant portion of Western Tibet’s economy. And yet, despite centuries of pilgrimage, Mount Kailash and the surrounding mountain ranges and glaciers remain pristine and unspoiled. Any trash that accumulates at the base can be cleaned, composted, or turned into fertilizer. But at higher altitudes, in the snow and glaciers, waste likely remains untouched forever.
In places like Everest and other Himalayan peaks, however, human ambition has brought drastic change since the 1950s, with a surge in climbing expeditions. Initially, Nepalis acted as guides for European climbers seeking to conquer the geography, but now they themselves have joined the competitive rush, risking their lives for fame and fortune.
Television and newspapers chase the same trend.
But there is fame. There is money too.
And so, seventy-year-old elders, amputees, the vision impaired, the deaf, children, couples—people of all kinds from all nations are scrambling to climb Everest. Many lose their lives in the process.
All for a name—a name that people forget in no time.
However, even among Westerners, there have been efforts to seek alternative approaches to mountaineering beyond its inherent brutality.
In 1971, at a time when climbing the highest peaks was the ultimate goal, three Norwegian mountaineers—Sigmund Kvale Setren, Nils Froland, and Arne Naess—embarked on an anti-climbing expedition to the sacred peak of Tsheringma (Gauri Shankar).
Instead of seeking to conquer nature, they aimed to connect with local culture, respect traditions, and embrace the true essence of mountaineering.
They were inspired by the Norwegian ethos of exploration and harmony with nature, which valued understanding over conquest—an approach not unlike Nepal’s own traditions. That journey changed their perspective on life and mountains forever.
Arne Naess, a mountaineer, educator, and philosopher, later wrote:
“…Competition breeds tension. Achievements are measured in superficial metrics like the number of climbs, difficulty, or altitude. Yet, the most beautiful and remarkable parts of the mountains are often found along the ridges and walls, not at the summit, which is often a desolate place. Still, climbers often walk in clouds at the summit, completing the climb for the sake of it…”
At the small village of Bedding, beneath Tsheringma, the Norwegian climbers were warmly welcomed. They spent weeks and months observing the Sherpas’ coexistence with nature, realizing that the true essence of mountaineering lies in forging connections with nature and local communities, rather than merely summiting peaks.
In the end, they explored the beautiful heights of Tsheringma, reaching places known to locals but with less risk. They enjoyed themselves thoroughly, understanding the value of preserving the sacredness of the mountains and respecting local traditions.
Their call was not against mountaineering but for its authenticity—honoring the sanctity of sacred peaks and respecting indigenous cultures. Mountaineering, they argued, should be a journey of mutual learning where both the visiting climbers and the host communities benefit.
Later, they contributed significantly to environmental conservation, education, and philosophy in Norway and worldwide.
Their advocacy and international pressure eventually led to the government’s decision to ban climbing on Tsheringma Gaurishankar, ensuring its sacredness remained untouched.
Yet, their Himalayan story gradually faded from public memory.
In 2018, a passionate traveler and educator revisited their narrative, bringing it back to light at a mountain conference in Canada. By chance, I met this individual while presenting on Mount Kailash and the Humla region.
Their dedication inspired me to retrace the forgotten paths of the 1971 climbers. Collaborating with like-minded individuals, Himalayan Buddhists, writers, and philosophers, we set out to honor this legacy.
Although the COVID-19 pandemic delayed our journey, it also allowed us to reconnect with the Bedding and Na communities, contributing to their schools and receiving a warm invitation.
Thus, we set forth to embrace a new era of mountain exploration—one that honors the sacredness of the peaks, cherishes the rich traditions of mountain communities, and fosters a deeper connection with nature. This approach not only safeguards the environment and respects the cultural sanctity of the mountains but also brings safety, comfort, and deeper fulfillment to the journey.
Let us all pause and rethink the purpose of our travels. Leave behind the race for records, the perilous pursuit of summits, and the fleeting allure of fame. Instead, retrace your steps toward a path of reverence, sustainability, and harmony—one that is rooted in ancestral wisdom, respect for the environment, and care for the local communities.
True recognition does not lie in mere courage to conquer peaks but in the legacy of those, like Sir Edmund Hillary, who became more celebrated for their unwavering commitment to uplifting the people of the Everest region and Nepal than for their personal feats.
The mountains do not demand conquest; they inspire understanding and connection. Will you tread this more meaningful path?