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The mountains rise up quickly on all sides, and the tin rooftops of Kathmandu quickly recede and gave way to lonely little villages and high-mountain farms. Finally, we drop down through the clouds and make a hard, right-banking turn toward a cramped little town poised on the edge of a cliff. The Lukla airstrip is a horror to behold: short, narrow and tilted upward at a 15-degree angle, with a high stone wall at the far end. The pilot makes a flurry of last-minute adjustments to the ageing controls and slams the plane down onto the runway and brings it to a halt before we reach the quickly approaching dead end.
Lukla is like a strange refugee camp, with barbed wire surrounding the airstrip and a crush of sherpas unloading and hauling cargo and supplies up and away from the airport. Past a few army officers with machine guns and through the fences, we spill into town. The cobblestone streets are wet with water that cascades from some broken pipe above. Yaks commingle with people and there's feces almost everywhere. Signs are hung on nearly every building advertising lodging and food, while tiny shops sell backpacks, climbing gear and supplies for the teams departing for Everest base camp. It's alive here.
Beginning our trek. Will write more once we rest in one of the higher villages.
(continued)
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