November 8, 2024
Today marks the start of our Mera Peak climb. I’m standing at 5,000 meters, and the tension and excitement hang in the air like vibrations. In front of me rise white peaks, sharply outlined against a stunningly clear blue sky. And when I squint my eyes, I can just make out tiny dots crawling slowly across the snowy slopes. A shiver runs through me. Will I be standing up there tomorrow?

October 26, 2024
Over two weeks ago, I set off from Japhre for our Mera Peak Trek. We’ll be on the trail for a total of 19 days. Alongside our group of eight people, our team includes our head guide Gyaljen Sherpa, two assistant guides—Nima and Nima (easy to remember)—all very experienced Sherpa men with many climbs to their names. We also have six porters: Pema Sherpa, and five Rai men: Daimand, Jagat, Laxman, Ashok, and Nima Raj.

We departed from Kathmandu by jeep for Japhre—a nine-hour journey through a landscape ravaged by recent floods. Silently, we gazed out at the destruction: debris caught in suspension bridges, riverbeds carved meters deep. What I already knew from my work at Stichting Nepal hit me hard now. Together, we shared the silence and a deep gratitude for our safe and privileged lives, where natural disasters are not a threat. Tired and overwhelmed, we arrived in Japhre.
Inside the colorful lodge, the owner greeted us with a warm smile that felt familiar and comforting. The smell of warm food filled my nose and made me hungry. We drank tea and ate together. By now, darkness had fallen outside, and I heard music and laughter. Through the windows I saw a crackling campfire. The flames danced and cast a warm glow over the porters and drivers standing around it. I stepped outside to join the celebration. The smell of wood smoke mingled with the crisp mountain air. Wim and Pim were dancing on top of the jeep, singing loudly to “Let the sun in your heart.” In no time, everyone was outside, singing along. The fire crackled, and the night shimmered with life.
Above me stretched an unimaginable blanket of stars, so close it felt like you could reach out and touch them. Here, beneath millions of stars, I felt it: the tone is set. This trek has begun, and it’s going to be unforgettable…

October 28, 2024
Our first challenge came two days later. Still in the dark, I stepped outside at 4:30 a.m. The air was sharp and fresh. Slowly, we began our climb to the top of Pikey Peak, at 4,066 meters. The climb was short and not technical, but my heart pounded, and I struggled to draw enough oxygen from the thin air. Every step took more effort. After almost two hours, I reached the summit—just in time for one of the most beautiful sunrises I’ve ever seen.
The rising sun cast a golden glow over a panorama of the highest mountains, including Mount Everest, Manaslu, Lhotse, and Mera Peak. Mera’s summit was now just one of many white peaks—but my eyes kept searching for it. That is my goal. Will I be standing there across the valley in two weeks, 2,500 meters higher?

In the days that followed, we continued through the warm, humid Nepalese jungle—up and down. The paths were steep, the stone stairs endless, and the heat clung to my skin. I had hoped for mountain views, but mostly saw fog and gray clouds. Sometimes, the clouds would part like a curtain, and I’d catch a glimpse of the peaks—sometimes even of Mera itself. As if it whispered: here I am, this is where you need to go. Those moments were magical, but also planted seeds of doubt.
If I’m already struggling here in the jungle, how will I manage at over 6,000 meters? What if I can’t do it? What if I don’t make it? Fear crept in slowly, like mist between the trees.

Day by day, we climbed higher and left the jungle behind. From about 3,600 meters, we were above the tree line. The typical Nepalese mountain terrain emerged—rugged gray rocks, rust-colored shrubs, and hidden behind the clouds, the white peaks. We were getting closer.

November 8, 2024
Today our ascent of Mera Peak begins. I’m at 5,000 meters, and the tension and anticipation are vibrating in the air. In front of me, snow-covered summits rise, sharply etched against a dazzlingly blue sky. It’s about to begin.
From Khare, we spend the first two hours scrambling over rocks and stones. My feet sometimes slip on the loose gravel, my hands touch the cold, rough rocks as I push myself up. At the base of Mera Peak, just beyond Base Camp, we stop. The air is thin and sharp. We put on our harnesses and crampons. From here, we continue in rope teams. My group includes our tall guide Nima Sherpa and my two companions: Wim and Pim.
The pace is slow—very, very slow. For two reasons: it allows you to walk longer at this altitude, and it helps your body acclimate. Right from the start, I can feel we’re well above 5,000 meters.
The vastness of the Mera La that we cross gives the illusion that our endpoint is near—but it’s deceiving. The rock hiding High Camp seems close, but it takes another 1.5 hours before we finally arrive, tired and relieved. And once there, I’m speechless. Not only because talking is hard due to the altitude and fatigue—but because this place, this view, is unbelievably beautiful.
I can’t believe I’m here. The small yellow tents perched so vulnerably on steep rocky ledges. Around us, the white giants of the Himalayas rise, their peaks gleaming in the late light. Below me, a thick, swaying blanket of clouds looks like an endless sea of mist. Emotion wells up—warm and raw. I’m so grateful to be here, in this place that feels too beautiful to be real.
With cold hands wrapped around a steaming mug of tea, I stare at the last rays of sunlight. Before my eyes, the snowcapped peaks transform—from glistening white to deep gold and orange, as if the landscape has caught fire. Then, almost imperceptibly, the sun sinks away and the cold settles in. The bright, clear world around us gives way to darkness. The stars are already waiting.

I hurry to the makeshift kitchen—just a few wooden beams and corrugated metal sheets fastened to a sloped rock wall. Pans melt snow for the rice we’ll soon eat. The cook is a man who works here alone—three months in spring and three in fall. He cooks for those arriving at high camp, those departing at night for summit attempts, and those returning. This goes on all day and night. When he sleeps, no one knows.
I sit down in the warm kitchen, and slowly the rest of the group joins. I notice the altitude is taking a toll on some. We are now at 5,800 meters. I have a bit of a headache, but some feel really unwell. One even doubts whether she’ll attempt the summit tonight. We’re all disappointed, of course, but it’s clear she’s not doing well. We go to bed early—the alarm is set for 12:15 a.m.

Peeing at -20 degrees.
It’s between -15 and -20°C and I need to pee. Going to the wooden shack that serves as a toilet is not an option. Any effort at 5,800 meters is a big one—let alone crawling out of a warm sleeping bag, putting on boots, and going around the corner behind a rock.
When I finally step out, an icy wind smacks my face. As I pull down my pants to pee, my bladder tightens from the cold and I can barely go. Just a few drops. Once I’m finally back in my sleeping bag, I feel it again: I need to pee. This repeats itself about four times until my bladder finally gives in. Relief—now hopefully a few hours of sleep before we go.

November 9, 2024
Despite the nerves and the wind rattling the tent, I manage to sleep on and off. At 12:15 a.m., the alarm goes off. Minutes later, Nima and Nima are already dressed, offering us warm tea at the tent. I skip the bowl of rice porridge—I can’t eat. All my energy bars and gummies are frozen. The only thing I eat is a Dextro tablet. It’ll have to do.
In the cold darkness, lit only by our headlamps and an endless starry sky that seems close enough to touch, our guide Nima prepares me for the climb: he checks my harness, secures the crampons, ties the ropes. We move upward step by step, slowly, silently, surrounded by nothing but night and icy wind. I lose all sense of time and place—only seeing the snow beneath my feet and feeling the need to stop every 20 steps. Doubts creep in—am I too weak? Am I slowing the others down?
But Wim and Pim reassure me and keep me in the group. We switch positions, and the team finds its rhythm again. I’m so thankful for these two men.
Behind me, the black sky turns orange, and then the sun breaks through—shining above the sea of clouds and between the giants of ice and rock. Though my hands nearly freeze when I remove my double gloves to take photos and videos, I can’t resist. The sun gives me new strength. My confidence grows. I know I will reach the summit. From that moment, there’s no more doubt—just step by step forward.

Ahead lies the final stretch—steep, sparkling in the bright sunlight. A fixed rope winds its way up the icy slope, our only hold. “Fifteen minutes max,” says Nima. After six and a half hours of plodding through snow and cold, that sounds like nothing—but my body disagrees.
We sink down into the snow, my legs heavy, my body weak. I need to eat but have no appetite. I take deep breaths, tasting the dryness of the altitude, smelling the metallic scent of crampons and wet leather gloves.
I nibble small bites, barely able to swallow, and look up at the final obstacle. The sun is high, the snow so bright I have to squint. Then, slowly, we strap on our harnesses again and get ready for the final push. Everyone lost in their own thoughts. Everyone fighting their own battle.
My hands find the rope, and step by step, I pull myself up. My legs protest with every move, my breath falters faster, but I push through. My world narrows to the tiny patch of ice in front of my boots and the dull scratch of crampons in the snow.

And then—suddenly—there’s the ridge. One final step, and I’m there. On the summit of Mera Peak. 6,476 meters high!
The wind cuts across my face, I’m exhausted but so proud and euphoric. Tears well up behind my sunglasses. I did it!