The best and worst day of my life

'Thorung La' - not everyone speaks these words with hushed awe. Most would say: 'What's that - a new type of pantie?' It is the highest mountain pass in the entire world, 5,415 metres above sea level, and it has to be climbed as part of the Annapurna Circuit (unless you turn around and go back the way you came, which became a very tempting option, believe me.)

We were 10 days into the trek. The air was thin and I had become skilled at the 'pause and pant' routine. I was of course, just stopping to admire the grand, humblingly beautiful snowy peaks and take photos. Each photo reminds me, not just of the most awe-inspiring experience of my entire life, but the pain, effort and endurance that went into it all.

3 days before the dreaded Thorung La, I had ordered a local juice. It had been diluted with unfiltered water. I was up in the night. Again - and again, and again. Breakfast - no chance. Even water (now suitably pure) had the same dire effect. But I had to walk and felt better by mid-day.

Day 2: Better.

Day 3: Worse again. As well as altitude, freezing cold and the steepest slopes ever invented, I felt weak as I had eaten little. Day 3 also involved the final drag up to High Peak, the place where we stayed overnight before the Pass. It was VERY cold; we were above the snowline and needed down jackets, woolly hats and gloves even in the sun. The air was as thin as it would get; I just kept heaving air into my lungs, stopping every 5-6 paces and looking depairingly at the path which got narrower and steeper as it wound out of sight. I struggled past the helicopter landing space, for emergency evacuation of people with advanced altitude sickness, who had made the mistake of trying to struggle on.

My torture continued for nearly two hours. I looked longingly downwards and behind me. Should I simply turn around and go back? But I couldn't. If I returned I would forfeit the chance to visit Upper Mustang, the enticingly isolated Forbiden Kingdomm which lurked just one day's walk away - on the other side of the pass. Ram, my guide, encouraged me. 'Just half an hour, that's all."

90 minutes later we finally rounded that elusive bend and arrived at a ramshackle collection of huts and tents in a small, snow-covered dip. TENTS! People were CAMPING up here! A slow-moving column of ploddeers trickled in after us, so I was lucky to have a room to sleep in. But it was SO cold. And there was NO HEATING. None at all - not anywhere. We huddled in the restaurant, wearing hats, gloves, scarves, coats, ordering tea so that we could wrap fingers around the cups. A few brave souls walked further up the mountain, practising for tomorrow. Not me. Some optimists had even made a snowman, though it could have been built 50 years ago as it would never thaw or melt. It could even have been built inside the restaurant...

As the sun went down it got even colder. Feet felt frozen, even with the thickest socks and boots on. 5pm: 5.15: 5.30: 6.00 - we counted down the minutes until we could decently go to bed and huddle into our sleeping bags. Phew - 6.30: we spent huge amounts of money for hot water bottles and set off for the huts. Easier than it sounded; we had to negotiate a perilously narrow and unlit path. And the loo was a 'long drop' - just don't lose your balance...

Boots off, we got staight into sleeping bags, clutching our salvation, the hot water bottles. I was frozen, with icy feet and huge worries about the next day. We had to start by 5.30, an hour before sunrise, to avoid the strong, bitterly cold winds that knifed across the pass from mid-morning. I was weak after 3 days of eating very little. And what about altitude sickness? Several people had returned down the hill, either in defeat, or to rest for a day as they had severe headaches / breathlessness diarrhoea. but... wasn't that me? I had all of those symptoms. I thought of bloodcurdling descriptions of altitude sickess in travel guides: frothing lungs, brain-clots, etc. Death seemed like the easy way out.

Then I belched - a foul-smelling eggy-flavoured eruption. Stangely enough, I rejoiced, smiling in the darkness. My diarrhoea had nothing to do with altitude sickeness - it was gardia. OK, gardia isn't exactly fun - it's an gut infection and for several days life is full of flatulence and even your best friends find other things to do when you're around - but IT WASN'T ALTITUDE SICKNESS! I could coninue the torture (sorry - climb).

That night I perfected the art of using a long-drop toilet in freezing cold with a heatorch - several times. I also rumbled, belched and farted through the night but my room-mate, bless her, was using earplugs. She must also have had nostrils of steel.

4.40am: time to leave warm sleeping bag. Dressing in the spine-freezing cold was easy enough - we simply pulled on boots, gloves and jackets as we were fully dressed. It was totally dark outside, though we could see a long worm of head-torchlights stretching back down the mountain and hear soft voices of people as they trekked past. I was scared. I felt weak after eating very little for days; I had a headache and was very tired. My guts were rumbling steadily and I felt very very cold. Everyone was quiet, probably focussing on reaching the Pass and probably facing their own demons.

There was a lot of climbing still to do. Luckily I couldn't see the steepness of the narrow, snowy pathway, but I felt it soon enough and just simply had to keep going in the freezing darkness. On - and on - stopping time after time to simply gasp for air. It was bitterly cold. Stars and moon shone metallic and bright. shimmering and cold. Despite the effort of climbing, my feet and toes turned numb within minutes. Ram took my bag and rubbed my hands every time I stopped (which was often) but I just felt desperately cold and already exhausted. I shivered endlessly, although I was panting for breath. The scene was beautiful though; a trickle of headtorches shone briefly on rocks and snow and the peaks stood black against the sky - then grey - then the sky took on a pinksih tinge. The sun was rising. Ponies jingled past and boots crunched on the snow.

We reached the tea-hut. Nurbu had been there for about twenty minutes and gave me tea. I just cradled it in my hands, trying to warm some feeling into them.

"How much further?" I asked Ram.

"Not far now," he encouraged. You'll make it."I wanted specifics and suspected he was being deliberately vague.

"How far? How long?"

"We are now nearly half-way there."

Not even half-way! Horrors. I was exhausted, my hands and feet were numb, I was shivering. And, worse, because I was going so slowly, Ram and Nurbu didn't have a chance to warm up. "No problem," Ram persisted. "Just take it slowly, stop when you have to and we will soon be there."

Then I had a better idea. The jingling bells of the ponies weren't there to signal Christmas. A seductive notice read 'Ponie can be rented for Pass'.

"Ram, find me a horse!"

"But you can make it through walking..."

"I have 2,000 rupees - see what you can do!"

- Miracle-man found me a pony for just that amount of money -what an investment. What better way to spend my children's inheritance? And at the very moment I mounted the pony, the sun rose from beind the mountain and life becaem GOOD! My noble steed made mincemeat of those slopes that had terrified me; I waved at people who had passed me without feeling a moment's guilt. All I had to do was hold on.

We arrived about 20 minutes later - at Party Place! People cheered when they arrived, even danced a little, posing for photos, even with complete strangers. Tibetan prayer flags fluttered around a large plaque which congratulated everyone. Snowy peaks stood out against a deep blue sky = what a cliche - but it was incredibly beautiful and, I'd used a pony, I had made it! We drank tea (champagne might have been excessive) took photos, congratulated ourselves and everyone else, then set off down th other side.

This was tricky though not exhausting; five hours of steep downhill walking. And the first hour was through the snowfield, a treacherous mixture of packed ice and slippery gravel. I was so glad of my walking stick - even Nurbu, master of the downward slope, trod slowly and fell twice, although he picked his way with unusual care. I heard later of a German women who had slipped and broken her leg that day; she had to be stretchered down the slope which must have been a unique form of agony.

We reached Muktinath - a mere 3,760m above sea-level; we found rooms and I showered then crawled into my sleeping-bag and lay, not sleeping or moving, for about 2 hours. I had achieved the impossible - I had survived the Thorulng La - but it had genuinely been the most difficult physical challenge of my entire life.