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toward a distant school.
    Lukla must be one of the most exciting commercial airstrips to land at in the world. The aircraft appears to be flying directly into the side of a mountain, and only in the last minutes does it become apparent that there is a sloping shelf on the mountainside where the airstrip sits. Rather than looking ahead between the two pilots at the narrow runway rushing toward us, I watched the faces of Barbara and the boys. All three of them were grinning wildly, but Barbara with less conviction. Only for the final seconds before the wheels touched down did I look forward, when it seemed inevitable that the Twin Otter would slam into the rock cliff at the end of the runway. But as on every other time I had landed here, the steep uphill slope allowed the plane to decelerate quickly, and suddenly it was all over.
    With us on the flight was Rudra Thapa, one of the Windhorse Trekking team. We drank cups of sweet milky tea in the courtyard of the lodge next to the airport building while Rudra organized two porters to carry our gear. A friend of Rudra’s, Beeba Sherpa, would help him to cook for and manage our small team.
    Lukla is at an altitude of 9,000 feet, which is certainly high enough for people to experience mild forms of altitude sickness. Luckily, the first day’s trek is all downhill, with the trail cutting across the mountainside to the banks of the Dudh Kosi River. It was an easy start to the trek, and we delighted in the fresh mountain air after the dust, noise, and crazy traffic of Kathmandu. That night we stayed in the village of Phakding, which we reached by crossing a long swing bridge that was decorated with prayer flags. For the next day and a half we hiked up the Dudh Kosi gorge until we reached another swing bridge high above a narrow canyon, which compressed the entire river. As the river smashed against the vertical cliffs, a heavy mist rose on the turbulent air to the level of the swing bridge, where we stood and marveled at the scene. Many of the rough planks on the bridge were broken or missing. The gaps were covered by flat rocks that had been dragged from the paths on either side. This kind of repair made Barbara wonder if any of the bridge was safe to walk upon. She found it to be sturdier than it appeared but still took comfort from the prayer flags.
    Beyond the bridge we faced a continuous climb up to the Sherpa village of Namche Bazaar. Two-thirds of the way up the hill we caught our first glimpse of Everest. All but the tip of the mountain’s summit was obscured by the walls of the gorge and the pine trees in front of us. Our boys were pleased to see the great peak but disappointed with how little of it was visible. They felt better when I told them that, over the decades, thousands of trekkers would have slogged up this hill, heads down watching their feet, without realizing they had missed their first chance to glimpse the world’s highest mountain.
    I paused to look at Everest and wondered whether I would ever return to its slopes. During the months since Michael Dillon’s first call, I had thought about the possibility a great deal. My place on the expedition had been confirmed, provided we could raise the necessary financial backing. However, it did not look like funding was going to happen in the short term. With the expedition at least a year away, I was happy to be here among the mountains again, taking in a good dose of the Himalaya before we took up our lives again in Australia.
    I looked up the trail and saw that Barbara was approaching a switchback that would take her out of sight. The boys had already rounded it, having rushed ahead, full of youthful energy. The main path consisted of continuous zigzags, angled gently to suit yaks carrying heavy loads, but I knew of a shortcut. From the lookout point where I stood there was a rough track up the steep spur formed by the forested hillside meeting the wall of the gorge. If I didn’t waste time, I