At the age of 67, the urge to test limits is still strong. Nepal had long been on the bucket list, and the goal was Mera Peak – 6,500 meters above sea level. This is the story of the intense preparation, the chaotic Kathmandu, the relentless stages, and the dramatic evacuation. It is a tale of a victory that wasn't about reaching the summit, but about learning when to say stop.
This is an abridged version of the blog post. Read the full version here.
Part 1 – Preparation and Departure
I have always had a peculiar urge to test my own limits. From the schoolyard, where I was never the first one chosen for sports, to the years of running, triathlon, and a life as a police officer. It was rarely medals I brought home – but the joy of fighting and challenging myself. And now, at the age of 67, I still had a taste for challenges.
Nepal’s peaks had long been on my bucket list. Not Everest – I leave that to the reckless and the young. My goal became Mera Peak. 6,500 meters above sea level. Tough, but realistic. Or at least realistic, if you ignore the fact that a body my age would prefer coffee and crosswords over ice axes and climbing harnesses.
The Training
The year leading up to the departure was a parade of sweat and self-discipline. Long hikes with a heavy backpack, hill sprints, stair climbing, cycling, and 10 km daily sessions on the rowing machine. Six days a week. My body protested regularly – especially my Achilles tendons, which are still sulking after some harsh years in Greenland – but I persisted. I had to face Nepal in the best shape of my life.
The Gear
Preparing for the Himalayas is a bit like preparing for a space journey. You suddenly find yourself in a shop buying ice axes, expedition boots for DKK 7,000, sleeping bags rated to -25, and climbing harnesses as if they were groceries. My old experiences from Qaanaaq helped – I still had some gear from when I froze in minus 30 on a dogsled. But I was still missing half of what I needed.
This is where LOOW came into the picture. They sponsored me with their wool clothing – and it became worth its weight in gold. I've tried a lot of merino wool, but their quality is simply sharper: durable, lightweight, and with a temperature regulation that saved me in the cold. I quickly figured out that the trick was to sleep with the damp base layer on inside the sleeping bag, while the rest lay at the foot end. That way, I always woke up with dry clothes – almost magical.
The Departure
Finally, the day arrived. I met the rest of the expedition team in Kastrup (Copenhagen Airport) – 22 days shoulder to shoulder with strangers. I was clearly the oldest, and the thought gnawed at me: could I keep up? Would I be the one the others had to wait for? But already at the airport, I was reassured – the group was mixed but warm, and we quickly found common ground.
Kathmandu greeted us with contrasts, heat, and chaos. At the hotel, the gear was laid out in the room for inspection, like a military show-and-tell. The trick was to get everything down to 15 kilos – including hand luggage. Mission impossible. The solution? Wearing half of it. I probably looked like a walking wardrobe, but rules are rules.
Part 2 – Kathmandu and the First Steps Towards the Mountains
Kathmandu is not a city you simply arrive in – it assaults you. The sound of horns, motorbikes, rickshaws, barking dogs, and shouts from every direction mixes into a symphony of chaos. Traffic rules? Sure, they probably exist on paper, but in practice, it's a matter of faith. And here, faith is strong.
One of the first days, a participant suggested we should watch the sunrise from the legendary Monkey Temple. Good idea, I thought – until I stood at the foot of the stairs. An endless climb where even my lungs started writing letters of complaint. I puffed like a steam locomotive, while the monkeys ran playfully up and down the steps with ease. Some of my teammates looked at me anxiously – they hardly thought I would make it further than the souvenir stalls. But I made it to the top. And the view, the colorful flags, the scent of incense, and the chaos of dogs, monkeys, and tourists made it all worthwhile.
We ended the evening at The Third Eye restaurant. True to tradition, shoes had to come off, and we were seated on cushions at floor level. Age always reveals itself when you try to sit elegantly cross-legged – my knees quickly reminded me that they were 67, not 27. But the food, strongly inspired by India, was both spicy and delicious.
Helicopter to Lukla
The next morning, we were at the airport bound for Lukla – the gateway to the Himalayas. However, the flight was overbooked, and four of us were selected to be left behind. Panic? No, because we were offered a helicopter instead. And it was a gift. Hovering through the valleys, watching the mountains rise on the horizon, and flying side by side with the sky – it was nothing short of breathtaking.
The pilot elegantly maneuvered us between mountain ridges until Lukla appeared: an airfield that looks mostly like a steep driveway that ends abruptly over an abyss. The world's most dangerous airport, they call it. I silently thanked the universe for the helicopter.
First Stage: Lukla to Monjo
From there, we immediately set off. The first stage brought us to Monjo – 13.7 km and 580 meters of ascent. It may not sound like much, but when you are struggling with oxygen deprivation and trying to find a rhythm in your body, it feels like climbing half of the Himalayas. I quickly ended up at the back, gasping for air. The team helped me with dextrose, pep talks, and patience, and finally, I limped into the teahouse, exhausted but relieved.
I slept heavily that night, and when I woke up the next morning, I felt like a new person. Breakfast – a dry French toast that required at least a liter of tea to wash down – tasted like gourmet food because I was hungry. And then they introduced me to ginger-lemon-honey-tea – a local miracle cure for altitude sickness. I've never liked ginger, but in the Himalayas, you become religious about any little help.
Onwards to Namche Bazaar
Day two was a constant ascent. Dusty trails, dizzyingly high suspension bridges, yaks, and mules going up and down the mountains. It's as if the entire Himalayas are in motion, and you are a small piece in a gigantic puzzle.
I quickly acquired a sherpa who "shadow-trained" me. Every time I stopped to catch my breath, she discreetly stopped and looked away, as if admiring the view. My old police instinct made me see through her immediately – she was assigned to keep an eye on me. It was actually sweet, but also a reminder that I was already on the list of potential problems.
After four tough hours, countless suspension bridges, and even more children greeting us with curious smiles, we reached Namche Bazaar at 3,400 meters altitude. My body was sore, but I felt significantly better than the day before. Maybe, just maybe, I was starting to get used to the thin air.
Onwards to Namche Bazaar
Day two was a constant ascent. Dusty trails, dizzyingly high suspension bridges, yaks, and mules going up and down the mountains. It's as if the entire Himalayas are in motion, and you are a small piece in a gigantic puzzle.
I quickly acquired a sherpa who "shadow-trained" me. Every time I stopped to catch my breath, she discreetly stopped and looked away, as if admiring the view. My old police instinct made me see through her immediately – she was assigned to keep an eye on me. It was actually sweet, but also a reminder that I was already on the list of potential problems.
After four tough hours, countless suspension bridges, and even more children greeting us with curious smiles, we reached Namche Bazaar at 3,400 meters altitude. My body was sore, but I felt significantly better than the day before. Maybe, just maybe, I was starting to get used to the thin air.
Part 3 – The Tough Stages and Acclimatization
In the Himalayas, there is no such thing as a "rest day." When the guide announces rest, in practice, it means: we are going uphill, just a little slower.
Namche Bazaar – The City of Breath
We had an official rest day in Namche Bazaar, but of course, we were sent out on a mountain hike. Every time I thought we were done, the guide pointed further upwards. "Just a little further," she said with a smile that revealed her lungs were from another planet.
Fortunately, the day also brought brighter moments. I was blessed by a Buddhist monk who placed a string around my neck and gave me a long hug. Funnily enough, the women in the group got twice as long hugs – apparently, monks are just human too.
A visit to the museum in Namche showcased Edmund Hillary's old equipment from 1953. When you see their heavy ropes, canvas tents, and wool coats, you understand why the sherpas still worship him. He didn't just reach the summit – he also helped the local community with schools and hospitals. And honestly: climbing Everest in the boots they had back then is almost more impressive than the ascent itself.
When Everything Hurts
We continued higher up. My body began to react – hips, calves, everything hurt. But little by little, I could see on my watch that the acclimatization was actually starting to work. That gave me hope.
On one of the tougher stages, I lost my balance on a loose stone, fell down between two boulders, and landed on my bad hip. As if that wasn't enough, my carbon trekking pole broke at the same time. Panic. Without poles, you are finished in this terrain. But the sherpa leader immediately sprang over, pressed his own pole into my hand, and said: "Go, go!" That sherpa chief saved my trip.
A Mountain of Contrasts
The trails constantly changed character: one day barren rocks, the next day lush rhododendron forests, so dense that you felt transported to the Amazon. Nature pushed all the buttons – impressive, frightening, and completely relentless.
The teahouses where we stayed overnight were a mixed experience. The common denominator, however, was the cold. No heating, no dry clothes, and the walls so thin that you could almost hear the snowflakes landing outside. I continued my little ritual: drying clothes in the sleeping bag. Not very effective, but a psychological salvation.
Small Victories
Upon arrival in Tagnag, I had had enough. I had been heavily in the rear guard for days, but suddenly the devil got into me. I chased after the leading sherpa and marched off at a pace I didn't think I had in me. Across streams, up steep trails – I felt like I was flying. I even got into the village first and was able to film the others as they arrived. It gave me a boost of confidence: maybe the race wasn't over for me after all.
Part 4 – High Camp and the Summit Attempt
We reached High Camp at 5,800 meters altitude. A place where the tents were pressed up against a cliff edge, as if glued to the sky itself. The view was fantastic – but honestly, who has the strength to enjoy the view when every breath feels like a marathon?
We were served tea and dinner by the tent flap, and I threw myself into my sleeping bag as early as 6:00 PM. Not to sleep – that's impossible at that altitude – but to conserve energy. The body was working overtime just by existing.
01:00 AM – The Summit Attempt
In the middle of the night, we were ready, tied together in small rope teams. I had my sherpa alone, which sounded nice – until I found out he was the Himalayas' equivalent of a Duracell bunny. He wanted to pass the entire caravan, out into the deep snow, and I was dragged along at a pace that made my lungs feel like they would burst. After 50 meters, I tugged at the rope and groaned: "Are you trying to kill me?" He laughed and continued at full speed, so I had to pull back. At these altitudes, it takes more than half an hour to recover.
The path wound steeply upwards, the headlamps in front of us looking like a string of Christmas lights against the stars. We passed snow bridges with deep crevasses on both sides – I refused to step onto them until my sherpa was across. If it collapsed, at least he could pull me up again. Real respect for these, after my time in Greenland.
The Mountains Test Everyone
We stopped constantly. Someone had to adjust equipment, a young girl was projectile vomiting, another was freezing their fingers, and a third lost their headlamp. The mountains test everyone – regardless of age, experience, or fitness.
I myself began to feel frostbite in my fingers. The gloves costing several thousand kroner proved to be useless. I shook my hands frantically inside them, cursing that my old Greenland gloves would surely have done a better job.
6,100 Meters – The Turning Point
We had reached approx. 6,100 meters, and the summit was looming ahead of us. Just 350 meters more. But there is no "just" in the Himalayas. I felt it clearly: I might be able to go up – but then I would never come down again. And the descent was at least as harsh as the ascent.
I shouted "Stop!" to my sherpa. He turned, astonished. But the decision was made. I had to turn back. Bitter, yes. But also logical. The mountains don't care about stubbornness – they take those who don't listen to their bodies.
A female teammate followed us down. She was struggling with pain in her lung, likely a collapsed lung or fluid. When we reached High Camp again, she fainted by my side. I just managed to catch her, press her head between her knees, and revive her. It was raw, brutal – and a very clear sign that the decision to turn back had been the right one.
Down in the Dark
Even the descent was an ordeal. I coughed like an old mule, my strength was gone, and at one point, I slipped on the stones, fell on my back, and had all the air knocked out of me. I lay there thinking: maybe this is where I'll stay. But the sherpa pulled me up, clapped me on the back, and said: "Good job, my man!" He didn't know that the clap felt like being hit by a hammer – but I didn't have the heart to say anything. He meant well, after all.
Part 5 – The Descent, the Helicopter Evacuation, and the Hospital
Turning back at 6,100 meters was wise – but the descent was anything but easy.
When the Body Says Stop
I coughed like an entire nursing home, and every single meter felt like a battle. The others kept an eye on me, and several anxiously asked if they could do anything. It was kind, but the truth was that no one could do anything – except my own stubbornness.
One night in Khare, I coughed incessantly from 3 AM. I could barely breathe, and my Garmin watch showed alarmingly high heart rates, even though I should have been well acclimatized. Suspicion crept in: pneumonia.
When the guide mentioned the possibility of evacuating me by helicopter, I didn't hesitate. The alternative was a 15-kilometer hike with 1,100 meters of altitude in my condition – a suicide mission. The price was 1,100 USD. I answered without hesitation: let's go!
The Helicopter Arrives
The morning after, I was ready along with another sick participant. The rest of the group was envious – not of our illness, but of the helicopter ride. I offered them a seat for 500 USD each – but there were too many people from Jutland (known for being frugal) in the group, so we ended up with two passengers instead of four.
The flight was pure magic. We soared over the passes I feared, weaved between the mountains, and I filmed it all from my second pilot's seat. I have flown a lot in Greenland – but the Himalayas from a helicopter is something very special.
The Hospital in Lukla
We landed directly at the hospital's helipad, where the staff was waiting. Inside, I was met by a Swiss doctor – an angel in a white coat. She listened to my lungs and noted shadows on the X-ray: pneumonia. She also found a compressed vertebra, possibly from my fall. "Not serious," she said, "but you should get a CT scan at home."
Then came one of those moments where the Himalayas shows its humor. A Nepalese nurse looked at my passport for a long time, shook her head, and said: "There must be a mistake. It says 66 here. You are at most 55."
I couldn't help but laugh. Being given 11 years in the state of health I was in was almost better than medicine.
X-ray in Nepalese
The radiologist came limping into the room – wearing a military uniform and with a smile from ear to ear. The X-ray machine was an old Siemens, and the entire session was controlled with one finger on the keyboard. No lead apron, no filter – just "Don't worry."
After three attempts, we finally got the images. The quality was terrible, but the doctor could clearly see the pneumonia and the compressed joint. I was prescribed penicillin and codeine – the latter so I could sleep.
A Glimpse of Normality
The hospital garden was full of brightly colored flowers. I sat there, wrapped in blankets, with the medicine in my hand, enjoying the sun. Everything had been efficient and surprisingly well-functioning – in fact, more streamlined than many Danish hospitals.
And then I was picked up by a local man with a Kipling cap, his wife, and daughter. The daughter, in a princess dress, greeted me with a smile and a "Namaste." I wasn't allowed to carry anything but my X-ray images – and frankly, I didn't have the strength for more either.
I limped down through Lukla, coughing and breathless, but relieved. I had come down from the mountain. I had survived 😉
Part 6 – Conclusion and Epilogue
The days after the helicopter ride passed slowly. I waited in Lukla while the rest of the team struggled back to the town on foot. I sat at the end of the runway and let my body recover – a runway that looks mostly like an aircraft carrier, where the planes catapult themselves off the cliff edge.
When you sit there, coughing and wrapped in blankets, you also notice the small absurd moments that make a trip like this unforgettable. Like when a participant flipped his contact lens inside out while his daughter filmed, and the sherpa next to him stared as if he was witnessing black magic. When it was explained to him that it was just "glasses you put in your eye," he looked like a man who had just seen sorcery.
Back in Kathmandu
Finally, we all gathered back in Kathmandu. The flight from Lukla was dramatic in itself: the engines roared, and we were catapulted over the cliff edge. You look around, just checking if it will actually hold.
At the hotel in Kathmandu, it felt like pure luxury: a toilet, a shower, and – for the first time in three weeks – a mirror. I stared at an exhausted man with open sores on his lips and nose that had chosen to shed its skin. I had lost a lot of weight, but honestly, it suited me. The price of the trip – 7 kg.
Reflection
I never reached the summit. I missed it by 350 meters. But in reality, it doesn't matter. Standing at 6,100 meters, with my lungs wheezing and the snow under my feet, was a victory in itself. For me, it wasn't about planting a flag, but about testing limits – and finding out when to say stop.
When I look back, it is not the disappointment that fills my mind. It is the images: the sherpa who laughed like a boy as he pulled me up the mountain. The monk who gave me a hug. The group who poured dextrose into me when I was about to collapse. And the nurse who granted me 11 extra years by refusing to believe my age.
The mountain won the battle for the summit. But I won the battle for the adventure. And that is enough.
