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Time Business News
a day ago
- Health
- Time Business News
Shilajit: Himalayan supplement from the Nature
Throughout history covered by the haze of the highest mountains on earth, for centuries shilajit has been considered in Ayurveda as the Destroyer of Weakness and the greatest rejuvenator. However, behind the hype there is something as unknowable as its mountain roots. That is the hidden history of shilajit- where the geology of primordial times and modern biology converge. Not all shilajit formed are of same standard. The finest resin emerges from three legendary kingdoms of the Himalayas (India, Nepal, Tibet) and are Renowned for producing the highest quality shilajit. This is due to the geological pressure, availability of mineral rocks and the extreme climate of the alpine that over millennium creates a bio available resin that is unique in the world. The Altai Mountains extending across Russia, Mongolia and Central Asia is a major supply source of the Shilajit across the Globe. Shilajit does not grow out of the ground, it is a seasonal gift: In spring and summer (warmer months), heat softens the raw resin which flows or oozes out through fissures on high-altitude rock walls (3,000-5,000m). Climbing up cliffs can become the prerogative of native harvesters such as the Kalash people and Sherpas of the Himalayas in the traditional way. Ropes and harness are used to collect this high valued organic matter from the cliffs This raw exudate sensibly collected is poetically called the blood of the mountain, tears of the mountain or the juice of rock. Langur Monkeys are the interesting source of ethnobotanical records who were prime subjects for the discovery of Shilajit. These primates were also observed by ancient people chewing the black resin to gain energy in times of harshness as well as a healing form. Humankind was rather lagging and seeing them they tapped one of the strongest adaptogens in nature Ayurvedic philosophy holds shilajit in great esteem as a so-called, Rasayana (rejuvenative) imbued with uncomparable balancing capabilities: Restores Depleted Energy (Ojas): Shilajit replenishes energy levels and maintains uniform energy supply. So, one can feel the energy throughout the day. Shilajit replenishes energy levels and maintains uniform energy supply. So, one can feel the energy throughout the day. Dispels Excess: Shilajit helps clear metabolic waste (Ama) stored in the body and corrects imbalances. Shilajit helps clear metabolic waste (Ama) stored in the body and corrects imbalances. Master of Balance (Tridoshic): Shilajit uniquely pacifies all three doshas: Vata (air/ether), Pitta (fire/water), and Kapha (earth/water). Shilajit uniquely pacifies all three doshas: Vata (air/ether), Pitta (fire/water), and Kapha (earth/water). Tissue Rebuilder (Dhatu Rasayana): Acts officially to provide nutrition and strengths of all seven basic tissue layers, the Rasa (plasma/lymph) on up to Shukra (reproductive tissue). Acts officially to provide nutrition and strengths of all seven basic tissue layers, the Rasa (plasma/lymph) on up to Shukra (reproductive tissue). Increase Agni : Supports digestive fire (Agni) without provoking excess heat or inflammation. Supports digestive fire (Agni) without provoking excess heat or inflammation. Synergy Amplifier: Potentiates the effects of other therapeutic herbs, acting as a bio-enhancer. Warrior Edge: Hunters used shilajit before hunting due to unsurpassed endurance, quick healing of injuries and pain tolerance as well as relief. Hunters used shilajit before hunting due to unsurpassed endurance, quick healing of injuries and pain tolerance as well as relief. Post-Illness Rejuvenation: Valued by restoring power, shilajit has been supposed to be used during and after wellness. The usage supported processes of protein synthesis, electrolyte balance and mitochondrial repair. Valued by restoring power, shilajit has been supposed to be used during and after wellness. The usage supported processes of protein synthesis, electrolyte balance and mitochondrial repair. The Secret of the Yogi: The Yogis used Shilajit as a religious and spiritual drug that is used to increase meditations and mental sharpness. According to modern science this can be associated with the optimization of dopamine and acetylcholine neurotransmitter pathways, augmentation of neuroplasticity and elevating the performance of mitochondria in the brain. The findings of ancient wisdom is now being confirmed by Modern Science. The strength of Shilajit is in the fact that it has an incredibly intricate composition: Biotic Treasure Trove: Laden with fulvic acid, humic acid, dibenzo-alpha-pyrones and more than 84 ionic trace minerals. Laden with fulvic acid, humic acid, dibenzo-alpha-pyrones and more than 84 ionic trace minerals. Ancient Phytochemicals: Has a unique compounds mixture consisting of ancient plant material, which is part of its effective adaptogenic roles (helping body oppose to stressors). Has a unique compounds mixture consisting of ancient plant material, which is part of its effective adaptogenic roles (helping body oppose to stressors). Mitochondrial Powerhouse: Shilajit promotes the energy (ATP) production of cells by supporting mitochondrial activity. Shilajit promotes the energy (ATP) production of cells by supporting mitochondrial activity. Oxygen Optimizer: Increases the use of oxygen and the production of red blood cells (RBC), which is why it has been historically used to ward off altitude sickness. Increases the use of oxygen and the production of red blood cells (RBC), which is why it has been historically used to ward off altitude sickness. Environmental Intelligence: Physicians consider shilajit to have the energy or intelligence of the particular mountain complex in which it grows, and that this plays a role in its effect. Although the benefits of shilajit are profound, it is very important where it is brought forth: Radiological Risk: Raw shilajit may contain radioactive traces of heavy and radioactive metals like Uranium, Thorium and Cesium. Raw shilajit may contain radioactive traces of heavy and radioactive metals like Uranium, Thorium and Cesium. The Purification Imperative: By contrast, Authentic Ayurvedic processing (Shodhana) is stringent in the removal of heavy metals, all contaminants and even lowering radioactivity. Shilajit must never be eaten with the raw and unpurified type. By contrast, Authentic Ayurvedic processing (Shodhana) is stringent in the removal of heavy metals, all contaminants and even lowering radioactivity. Shilajit must never be eaten with the raw and unpurified type. Warning: Extended use of adulterated product:50% of so-called shilajit on market is counterfeit i.e., it is simply dirt and tar. Shilajit is not just a supplement but the medicinal marvel harvested from the ancient mountainous rocks. This biological nature's gift is amazing beyond words to be able to synchronize, replenish, and defend the body on a cellular level making it one-of-a-kind in the natural pharmacopeia. Source Reputably: Choose suppliers that sources from Himalayan Region(India/Nepal/Tibet) or Altai Mountains. Choose suppliers that sources from Himalayan Region(India/Nepal/Tibet) or Altai Mountains. Look for certifications: Look for third party certifications on purity tet and mineral content results before making a purchase to verify the authentic Shilajit. Look for third party certifications on purity tet and mineral content results before making a purchase to verify the authentic Shilajit. Start low: Take small amounts (rice-grain or smaller of resin or as instructed of extracts) and ask your Ayurvedic practitioner or health care professional Unleash the potential of the Himalayas, yet with shilajit that celebrates its sacred, powerful and pure heritage. TIME BUSINESS NEWS
National Geographic
04-08-2025
- Entertainment
- National Geographic
Can this Sherpa change mountain climbing forever?
Still just a teenager, Nima Rinji Sherpa has big plans for the future: He recently partnered with the United Nations Development Programme, signed a book deal, and incorporated a company to make souvenirs out of trash removed from Everest. Photograph by Krystle Wright Last October, a slender 18-year-old Sherpa climber stood atop a snowy peak in Tibet and recorded a selfie video in the dark. It was 6:05 a.m., and with this summit of a mountain called Shishapangma, Nima Rinji Sherpa had topped all 14 of the world's 8,000-meter peaks, becoming the youngest person ever to do so. Like several international climbers who reached the peak that morning, he also had support: Nima had been led by a Sherpa guide. Breathless in the thin air and wearing a puffy down suit, Nima thanked his mom for praying for him and his dad for funding his expeditions. He alluded to the conflicts in Ukraine and Gaza and asked for an end to war, hate, and racism. 'As a teenager, this is my message to each and every one of you,' he panted, then shouted, 'Woo-hoo!' Once he descended, Nima texted the video to his manager in Mumbai, who spliced it into an Instagram reel with inspirational music and blasted it to Nima's then 20,000 followers. Reporters called for interviews and shared the feel-good story of the teenager climbing under the banner #sherpapower to spread the message that his people weren't just supporters of Western climbers but athletes in their own right. Sherpas have long been associated with the hard but unglamorous aspects of climbing, like hauling loads and fixing lines. Nima has a different goal: becoming a global superstar. Photograph by Dina Litovsky Much of this scenario would have been improbable even one generation ago. For nearly 120 years, Sherpas have served as porters and guides for foreign climbers seeking glory on the world's highest peaks, becoming so synonymous with this work that many Westerners don't know that the word 'Sherpa' is an ethnicity, not a profession. But in the past 15 years, Sherpas have founded industry-leading guiding outfits and pursued their own world records and first ascents. Nima sits on the cusp of the next evolution: a Sherpa looking to eschew the business of guiding altogether and become a professional climbing star. (Superpowers are real—the resilience of Sherpas is proof.) Two months after setting his record, Nima was already preparing for his next project. Alongside famed Italian alpinist Simone Moro, he was attempting a winter ascent of 8,163-meter Manaslu. If they succeeded, the duo claimed, it would be the first winter climb of an 8,000-meter peak in pure alpine style, meaning in a single push, with none of the established camps, fixed ropes, bottled oxygen, or Sherpa support that Nima enjoyed on the 14 peaks. Even Moro, who at 57 had summited more eight-thousanders in the winter than anyone else, had never done so in pure alpine style. Expeditions like this are out of reach for most climbers from one of South Asia's poorest countries, but Nima is uniquely set up for them. His father, Tashi Lakpa Sherpa, and uncles are the founders of one of Nepal's largest guiding company, Seven Summit Treks. (The brothers also own an outfitter named 14 Peaks Expeditions, which Tashi oversees; a helicopter company called Heli Everest; and stakes in various other businesses.) Thanks to his dad's wealth, Nima never had to grind on the mountain, guiding or schlepping Westerners' gear as other Sherpas do. Even Moro's mentorship came through family connections; the alpinist works for the brothers as a helicopter pilot. (How an all-Nepali team pulled off one of the most dangerous climbs in history.) A few days before Nima departed, we met for breakfast at the Aloft hotel in Kathmandu where his father puts up clients and which serves as Seven Summit's de facto headquarters. Bearing the hallmarks of adolescence—a light mustache, clean Air Jordans, and earnest enthusiasm—Nima sipped a cappuccino while dishing sound bites at double speed. Eloquent and private-school educated, Nima knew his lines. 'I only want to do projects that are meaningful,' he said, because 'we're going to pass away someday. We have a very limited time.' The winter expedition would be a major step up from what he'd done, involving breathtaking cold and hurricane-level winds that could pin climbers in their tents for days. But Nima was undaunted. He fancied himself more an explorer than a climber, and 'winter climbing is more like exploration,' he declared, having never done a winter climb. 'It's more for me.' Historically, the chance of success for any winter 8,000-meter expedition is low, just 15 percent, according to Moro. So Nima added a disclaimer. 'Even if we don't reach summit, it's a learning for us.' It would be better if they summited, though. Nima wants to be a professional climber, meaning one sponsored by brands like The North Face and Red Bull. But his 14-peaks record hasn't been enough to earn those endorsements, so Manaslu is a chance to build his résumé. Nima joked that he needs a sponsor so that he doesn't 'bankrupt' his dad. But sponsorship isn't about the money. It's about dignity, he said. Sherpa climbers, he continued, 'never had the privilege to get chosen. The day I make the team, the day people consider me a professional athlete, it brings value.' For all the upward mobility that Sherpas have recently enjoyed, they have yet to make the leap from being guides who climb in their off-hours to athletes being paid to chase their own dreams. In aiming to be the first, Nima hopes to earn a measure of respect and equality that his people have long been due. But to grasp the opportunity before him, he'll have to transcend the world of commercial climbing that has both elevated and circumscribed his community for generations. Last winter, Nima and Italian alpinist Simone Moro climbed Nepal's Ama Dablam, a 22,349-foot peak known as the Matterhorn of the Himalaya, to acclimatize for an alpine-style push on 26,781-foot Manaslu. Photograph by OSWALD RODRIGO PEREIRA The idea of paying someone to guide you up a peak because you lack the ability to climb it independently is a relatively new one in the history of Himalayan mountaineering. For most of the 20th century, only explorers and serious climbers attempted peaks that rose above 8,000 meters, into the so-called death zone where there's insufficient oxygen to support human life. But in 1985, a wealthy Texas businessman named Dick Bass was led to the top of Everest by a climbing phenom named David Breashears, sparking the imaginations of amateur climbers worldwide: If he can do it, so can I. The commercial climbing industry was born. From the 1990s through the aughts, Western companies dominated the booming guiding business on Everest, charging up to $75,000 to climb the world's highest peak. They employed Sherpas and subcontracted logistics, like Base Camp setup and rope fixing, to Nepali companies, but the foreign guides owned the customer-facing outfitters and made the majority of the money. Some young Sherpas working on Everest saw an opportunity. Among them were Nima's father, Tashi Lakpa Sherpa, and three of his five brothers, Mingma, Chhang Dawa (who goes by Dawa), and Pasang Phurba. (Want to climb Mount Everest? Here's what you need to know.) The brothers grew up in a remote village with no electricity or running water, in view of 8,485-meter Makalu peak. Their childhood was one that Tashi now compares to the show Man Vs. Wild. They lived in the jungle, herding the family's yaks, sheep, and cows. They slept in shelters built from plastic tarps and hunted small animals for food. Sometimes they heard no other human voices for months. But the boys grew up proud. Their herds made them wealthy by the subsistence standards of the village. There were no mountaineers in the family. The brothers learned on the radio about climbing Sherpas like Ang Rita Sherpa, who was nicknamed the Snow Leopard and climbed Everest 10 times without bottled oxygen. 'He is Sherpa, I am also Sherpa. Why can't I do this?' Dawa recalled thinking. Mingma, the second oldest brother, went to Kathmandu at 14 and found a job hauling 75-pound loads as a trekking porter, then worked his way up to climbing with clients. Once he gained enough experience to fix ropes on 8,000-meter peaks—a job reserved for the strongest and most skilled Sherpas—he sent for his brothers. Tashi, the second youngest, began climbing Everest at 18. He crossed the deadly Khumbu Icefall 20 to 30 times an expedition, he told me, experiencing mortal fear each time. 'Every day, every second, life is in danger,' he said. Nima's father, Tashi Lakpa Sherpa (right), co-founded Seven Summit Treks, one of Nepal's largest guiding company, and he knows the dangers of mountaineering firsthand—he's climbed Everest nine times. Still, he says, Nima has 'a totally different opportunity for the Sherpa community.' Photograph by Krystle Wright But Mingma and Dawa, the brawny big brothers, were particularly irked by their unofficial job title. 'The Western people say we are porters,' said Dawa. 'This is not fair,' said Mingma. In their eyes, they were doing the same work as foreign guides, climbing the same mountains as clients. Why were they porters, and the Westerners guides and climbers? 'That's why we have to show something,' said Dawa. To prove that they had the skills to rival the world's best guides, Mingma and Dawa decided to climb all the 8,000-meter peaks. At the time, only the most dedicated mountaineers climbed all 14, and Mingma was the first Nepali to do so. The accomplishment gave the brothers major credibility, and inspired an idea. They would start their own company—and cut out the middleman. In 2010, they launched Seven Summit Treks, charging just $30,000 per person to climb Everest. Other Sherpa-led businesses followed, and over the next several years these companies outcompeted the old guard, benefiting from the ability to set lower prices as well as various upheavals in the climbing industry, as journalist Will Cockrell chronicled in his book, Everest, Inc. By 2019, Cockrell reported, Seven Summit was the largest taxpayer in Nepal's trekking and guiding industry. Today, Himalayan climbing archivist Billi Bierling calls Sherpas the 'bosses on the mountain,' estimating that they own 80 to 85 percent of the expedition market. While Sherpas of this generation were taking control of their industry, some were also falling in love with climbing, a sport most of their forebears saw as only a job; and slowly building visibility. By 2015, Sherpa climbers were making first ascents sans clients and promoting their feats on social media. In 2018, a Sherpa named Dawa Yangzum was sponsored by The North Face, albeit for guiding; she was the first Nepali woman to earn a certification from the International Federation of Mountain Guides Associations. But the trend was turbocharged in 2019, when a Nepali British former special forces soldier, Nirmal 'Nims' Purja, climbed the 14 peaks in record time, using helicopters, bottled oxygen, and fixed ropes to accomplish in six months what had previously taken Korean climber Kim Chang-Ho nearly eight years to do (though Kim climbed without supplemental oxygen and kayaked and cycled to Everest Base Camp). Nims, who is not Sherpa, brought handheld cameras and broadcast his journey on Instagram, capturing footage that became a hit 2021 Netflix documentary. He leveraged his exploits to start his own guiding business and sign deals with Red Bull, Nike, and Bremont watches, and though his career is now plagued by accusations of sexual misconduct (which he's denied), he put the world on notice that when Nepalis didn't have to serve clients, they could be recognized as world-class climbers in their own right. (Meet the Sherpa bringing Wi-Fi to Everest.) Nima comes of age in these flush times, blessed with not just family money but also role models and next-level ambitions. Growing up in Kathmandu, Nima began telling his father in early adolescence that he wanted to become a professional athlete. 'The plan was always to do something big in life,' Nima said. 'It was always the plan.' Nima poses with Kami Rita Sherpa after the latter's 29th summit of Everest. Photograph by Manish Maharjan The lead-up to a major objective tends to be an ascetic time for athletes, when they retreat from the world and prepare. But Nima is trying to capitalize on his moment, and he kept a frenetic schedule in the few days before Manaslu, attending to small-time obligations ranging from a cricket game for the Nepal Premier League to an interview for an American friend's YouTube channel and an elaborate 20-person lunch with Jane Goodall. Nima's manager at the time, Asad Abid, was frustrated. He thought Nima was sinking too much time, for free, into engagements that didn't move him toward his ultimate goal, which is to get paid to climb by brands. Some companies have offered free gear, Abid said, 'but nobody's talking money.' The outdoor industry is dominated by Western brands, and Sherpas face racial and language differences that can make it difficult to secure endorsements. They also have to contend with a cultural and vocational challenge. The Sherpa community venerates climbers who have summited Everest 20 times or set records like Nima's, but climbing brands don't usually sponsor mountaineers who ply trade routes on fixed ropes in the commercial style, whether they're the Sherpa guides on those expeditions or the climbers who pay those guides and use bottled oxygen, as Nima did. Most professional climbers are instead alpinists, who are self-supported and travel light and fast. To inspire the climbing cognoscenti, and eventually earn sponsorships, an athlete must climb new routes or peaks in good style, meaning without bottled oxygen or fixed ropes—and achieve an ineffable X factor that can be hard to grasp for those born outside of alpinism's Eurocentric culture. 'You need to have been living and breathing climbing as a sport from a young age to understand what is considered an accomplishment,' Cockrell says. It's a daunting transition even for the most well-resourced young Sherpa, which is why Moro told me he felt the urgency to 'grab' the teen, as he put it, and mentor him, 'before he falls into the trap of becoming another famous 8,000-meter-peak collector.' In inviting Nima to Manaslu, Moro hoped both to teach skills and instill the kind of worldview he said Nima will need to make it as a professional adventurer. The leap that Nima needs to make from commercial mountaineering to alpinism could be years long. He'll have to learn skills like ice climbing and placing gear, alpinist and former North Face team manager Conrad Anker told me. He'll also likely have to travel to North America or Europe to train on rock and ice, as it takes days to approach most peaks in Nepal. And he'll have to develop an eye for identifying his own projects. But in the age of the athlete-influencer, there may be a different way for Nima, one modeled by Nepali climbers like Nims. Climbing purists said that Nims's feat was primarily one of logistics and marketing—he achieved a speed record he essentially invented, one utilizing every accoutrement from helicopters to bottled oxygen—yet he nonetheless circumvented the traditional path to stardom. Nima, too, seems to be betting on this model of building his brand alongside his bona fides. 'Climbing both [Everest and Lhotse] on the same day,' he wrote in April 2024 on Instagram, 'is almost unheard of, and I found myself doing it as the mountain spirits guided me.' Still, storytelling can go only so far. Nims's record was paradigm shifting, and the long process through which Dawa Yangzum obtained her IFMGA certification is widely respected in climbing. Nima may be able to find his own path to professional climbing. But if you want to climb for a brand like The North Face, Anker says, you have to 'climb hard.' (You can still climb Mount Everest. Here's how to do it responsibly.) As with many prodigies, it's hard to tell how much of Nima's ambition is innate versus inherited, the result of some subtle parental prodding. As Tashi drove Nima and me around Kathmandu in his leather-lined SUV one afternoon, the two took turns telling Nima's origin story, passing the ball to one another smoothly in the front seats. Tashi's support of Nima has been tireless and unconditional. When Nima wanted to become a professional soccer player, Tashi tried to link him up with an elite coach. When that fizzled, he took his son to the climbing gym. When Nima wanted to become a photographer, he took him trekking to shoot photos. Tashi, who at 39 wore thick-framed black glasses and a stylish fade, said, 'I bought, like, a Sony A7?' 'Sony A7, yeah,' Nima agreed with a chuckle, from the passenger seat. 'A Sony A7 for him, and several lenses,' Tashi continued. 'Then I took him to Kongma La Pass, right?' This is a multiday trek in Nepal. 'Just the two of us, yeah.' 'Just him and me,' Tashi agreed. 'I saw that he's very strong.' It was on this trek, when Nima was 15, that Tashi suggested it might be 'interesting,' as Nima recalled it, for him to climb the 14 peaks as a teenager. Nima went home and did his research, then told his dad, Let's do it. The father's idea had become the son's. Initially, the 14-peaks project was a creative, mostly selfish endeavor: Inspired by Asian American adventure photographer and National Geographic Explorer Jimmy Chin, Nima wanted to produce a documentary. But on his first climb, Manaslu, in September 2022, he saw something surprising. He never knew much about the family business, and had always assumed his father's clients must be elite-level athletes to climb big mountains. Now he saw that in fact, many of them were average, even slow. Meanwhile Sherpas outpaced everybody and carried their loads. Seeing their raw talent, he began to wonder why there was no world-famous Sherpa climber today. Thanks to his father's connections, Nima (right) never had to make a living hauling gear and supplies on the steep trails leading to the high peaks. Photograph by Krystle Wright His motivation was galvanized, however, on his first trip to Shishapangma, a year before he'd ultimately summit. It was October 7, 2023, and Nima was at Base Camp. A Seven Summit Sherpa named Tenjen 'Lama' Sherpa, whom Nima had grown close to, was also on the mountain, assisting climber Gina Rzucidlo as she attempted to become the first American woman to summit the 14 peaks. Another American, Anna Gutu, was also targeting her 14th peak the same day. On their summit push, Gutu and her partner were killed in an avalanche. Lama and Rzucidlo were just below the summit, and Nima radioed to advise that they descend. But Rzucidlo wanted to continue, and shortly after, a second avalanche claimed both her and Lama's lives. Nima was in shock. Lama had come to feel like one of his guardian angels on the mountain. Afterward, he was depressed for months. 'I just felt very demotivated,' he said. 'Not just in climbing. In life itself.' It was during this time that he began to use the hashtag 'sherpapower.' He realized he wanted to be a voice for the Sherpa community. He wanted his people to feel that their lives had value beyond the measure of their wages. 'Let's say they make $4,000 a summit,' he said. 'I don't know if there's any job where you get paid this and it's so risky.' Sherpas 'literally feel' for their clients, he told me pointedly, sacrificing their own safety and even lives to help them summit. This kind of courage and loyalty, he said, 'is not something money can buy.' They deserved for their stories to be told, he thought—to be honored like heroes, not just paid like help. Over the years, Tashi has witnessed the death of many Sherpas like Lama, which is why he always told his own son that if he were to climb, he'd climb as an athlete, not a guide. If Nima was going to risk it all, he would risk it for his own dreams. Nima's climbing was nonetheless extremely stressful for Tashi and his wife, Leema. Tashi says he hid his worry—he didn't want to affect Nima's decision-making in the mountains—but behind the scenes he spun a protective web. He assigned one of his ace guides, Pasang Nurbu Sherpa, as Nima's climbing partner; he kept helicopters on standby while they climbed; he cut clients deals to beef up the man power on Nima's expeditions. On summit days, he didn't sleep, refreshing Nima's GPS tracker every 10 minutes. Whenever Tashi thought about calling his son back, he reminded himself, We are on a mission. (That's the word he uses, 'we.') 'I want to make him a super climber, super athlete,' he said. 'So I manage my emotions.' Tashi also wanted to shield Nima from another fraught aspect of the guiding business. Especially in its early years, Seven Summit was criticized for its safety record, and some said the company brought dangerously inexperienced guides and climbers onto the mountains. (The brothers acknowledged some growing pains but said they recruited many new Sherpas to the industry who are now trained and experienced, and train clients on lower peaks before they climb eight-thousanders.) In channeling Nima toward a different path, Tashi hoped to keep his son from the controversy that's dogged him and his family. 'He can have another type of job and professionalism as an athlete,' he said. Of course, Tashi could have encouraged his son to pursue a profession outside of climbing, as many Sherpas have urged their children to do. Any 8,000-meter peak can kill you, and the dangers are magnified in the winter, when temperatures plummet and avalanche risk increases. Going in alpine style removes the added security of fixed lines and bottled oxygen. The first time Moro attempted a winter alpine-style 8,000-meter ascent, an avalanche killed both his climbing partners. I asked Tashi what he'd say to parents who wonder how he can not only let his son do something so dangerous but also fund it. 'I think'—he said, pausing thoughtfully—'creating history is not normal. It's not simple.' Abid, Nima's former manager, offered his theory. 'I think Tashi is living vicariously through Nima,' he said. But when you're a parent whose life story is entangled within a generations-long struggle for equality, your children may serve as a proxy for more than your own unrealized ambitions. Tashi has seen so many strong Sherpa boys working for the glory of others, he told me, so much of his people's talent hired away. He always wanted to see one of those young athletes climb unencumbered. 'This is a totally different opportunity for the Sherpa community,' he said, 'and I really want to send my son in this way.' Annapurna was the first of all the eight-thousanders to be climbed, but it's also one of the deadliest— for every three climbers who stand on the summit, one will die trying to get there. Nima reached the peak in the spring of 2024 without the use of supplemental oxygen. Photograph by Manish Maharjan In Kathmandu in December, you can be seduced into believing winter won't kill you. The day that Nima left for his climb was like all the other days before it: sunny and mild, the smog-filled sky a dingy blue. I boarded an orange Heli Everest chopper with Nima, Moro, and Polish filmmaker Oswald Rodrigo Pereira, 40, their climbing partner. The plan was to fly into the Everest valley and trek five days to the Base Camp of Ama Dablam, a technical, 6,812-meter peak known as the Matterhorn of the Himalaya, where I'd catch a heli ride back. They'd climb Ama Dablam to acclimatize, then fly out to the Manaslu valley. The helicopter soared over green hills rippled with farming terraces, carved from the mountain like stadium steps. Snowcapped peaks lined the horizon, each big and beautiful enough to anchor a national park on its own. This was awe-inspiring stuff for most people, but for Nima, it was a commute. He'd fallen asleep. During the past few days in Kathmandu, I'd witnessed the muscle of Seven Summit firsthand. Everywhere I went, I bumped into smiling, clean-faced young men wearing company puffies and ball caps. Nima was cocooned within this universe, chauffeured and flanked constantly by the Sherpas in his father's employ. Does Nima fully understand what achieving his dream would require, from the hard work to the risktaking it would demand? He says he does, but for all his precociousness, here was an 18-year-old who still compared climbing to the epic adventures out of his favorite fantasy books. 'Winter expedition is like Lord of the Rings,' he said with exuberance, or 'When you read Harry Potter, it makes you excited. I feel like I'm in that life right now.' In both these stories, a hero—a chosen one—goes on a quest to save the people he loves. Harry Potter is destined by prophecy to save wizardkind; Frodo carries the Ring to save Middle Earth. Nima, too, sees himself as a messenger for his community. 'I think at the young age that he is, he already has a big burden on him, that he also imposes on himself,' Pereira later told me. In the helicopter, Nima woke up. We were wearing soundproof headsets, so he used his iPhone camera to show me Everest, zooming in on the snow-covered pyramid. Then he opened his notepad and typed me a message: 'The prince returns to the mountains.' Nima's first noncommercial expedition began smoothly, with days of dry weather on Ama Dablam. Nima, Moro, and Pereira enjoyed two easy rotations—acclimatization trips—up to Camps I and II. But the night before their summit bid, it snowed. With the rocks now slick, the climbers had to brace more often against fixed ropes, and on the second day, Nima's hands and forearms began to cramp. The trio decided to turn around several hundred feet below the summit and move on to Manaslu with less acclimatization than they'd hoped. After they reached Manaslu Base Camp a week and a half later, it snowed again. Then the forecast deteriorated further: three straight weeks of winds projected at over 90 miles an hour, creating dangerous climbing conditions. If they waited, they'd lose what acclimatization they had. After a week at Base Camp, they canceled the expedition. Nima and Moro immediately planned another attempt on Manaslu next winter. 'I felt like this was the best expedition of my life,' Nima told me. The extreme conditions exhilarated him, and compared to commercial expeditions, 'everything was in our hands.' Nima's greatest challenge now may be to stay focused on climbing. After Manaslu, he once again has a lot going on. He recently signed a book deal and announced that he's a climate influencer for the United Nations Development Programme in Nepal. In the spring he went to Everest Base Camp, but not to climb—he was helping his dad manage logistics, sitting for interviews with an American news crew, and assisting a company that was experimentally using drones to haul trash off the mountain. He'd also incorporated a company of his own, to make souvenirs from all that trash. He was training for Manaslu, he told me, but he was vague about how much, saying that he was trail running and strength training but didn't track his workouts. It remains to be seen if Nima will be the breakthrough athlete he wants to be. He has his doubters. His privilege is a source of ire among some in his own community, and several people I interviewed wanted me to know that Nepal has many talented young climbers today, not just Nima—climbers who would have his profile if they had his opportunities. But Nima believes that whether he achieves his goal or not, he's done something for his community already. (When climbing the world's tallest mountains, what counts as cheating?) On our trek's fourth day, I asked him what he thought of the debate about his climbing style. The sun was sinking below the mountains, and we were in a chilly room of a rustic lodge in the Sherpa village of Deboche. Was he aware that some people dismissed climbing 8,000-meter peaks as he did, with oxygen and fixed lines and Sherpa support? That people suggested that, in the eyes of 'real climbers,' he had yet to achieve much? Nima was sitting in a chair with his arms crossed. He didn't even pause. He said he didn't think those criticisms applied to him, then laughed. If he was a grown man making a big deal out of his accomplishments, they might have a point. 'But I'm just 16, 17 years old, just figuring it out,' he said, reminding me how young he was when he started climbing in the high peaks, so give him a break. Nima knows that what he did was impressive at his age. He understands that the story of Sherpas in the past 15 years has been one of the power of role-modeling, of being able to see heroes made in your own image and then daring to imagine yourself surpassing them. He believes he moved the right people. 'If I was someone else and I saw an 18-year-old did this,' he said, 'I'd be inspired.' A version of this story will appear in the November 2025 issue of National Geographic magazine.
Gulf Insider
05-07-2025
- Gulf Insider
So Close To The Top: How Dubai-Based Indian Resident Came Within Reach Of Everest At 72
At 7,300 metres, the air is razor-thin, the cold unforgiving, and the mountain indifferent. This is Camp 3 on Mount Everest — a place known to test the strongest climbers on earth. For most, it's a brief stop before heading into the death zone. For 72-year-old Raman Chander Sood, it was the highest point of a remarkable journey. He was one camp and one final night's climb away from the summit. But following the deaths of four climbers — two of them Indian — in the same week, his Sherpas refused to continue. Sood, they said, had already pushed the limits of age and endurance. He turned back, but not in defeat. He had already achieved what not many Indians in their seventies is known to have done: reached Everest's Camp 3. Sharad Kulkarni became the oldest Indian to reach the summit, aged 60 years and six months in May 2023. The journey began not on a mountain, but on a Dubai sofa in 2021. Sood's 10-year-old grandson Umair walked in and asked, 'Nana, what is your purpose in life?' Caught off-guard, Sood gave the answer many retired professionals do: 'I've worked, raised my kids, and now I play with my grandkids.' But the boy shook his head. 'You can't while away your life scrolling on the sofa,' he said. 'You need a purpose.' That night, Sood couldn't sleep. 'Around midnight, it struck me — Everest was always my dream,' he says. 'Maybe this was a sign — a call from the divine, spoken through a child.' Sood's love for the mountains began early. Born in a remote village in Himachal Pradesh, he first trekked to 11,000 feet in 1963 as an 11-year-old Boy Scout. 'We had no electricity, no roads. Just nature and the hills,' he recalls. 'That trek changed me.' Despite a demanding 40-year career at the State Bank of India, he managed occasional treks. But eventually, work pressures and family commitments took over. 'There was a 20-year gap,' he says. 'But I always kept myself fit for this day.' After retirement, he and his wife completed the Kailash Mansarovar Yatra. But Everest stayed in his mind. A week after Umair's question, a message popped up in Sood's old trekking group: an expedition to Everest Base Camp and the Three Passes was being planned. Sood signed up immediately. The group was being led by Colonel Romil, a retired Indian Army officer and experienced Everest summiteer. 'At first, he was sceptical,' Sood says. 'He told me I was too old. But I asked for a workout plan and promised to send him daily updates.' Within two months, Sood proved he had the stamina and discipline. He completed the trek in 2021, climbing peaks like Kala Patthar (5,700m) and Nangkartshang (5,200m). Romil was impressed. 'He told me, 'There's still juice left in you, sir. You could take up mountaineering seriously. At your age, you'd be the oldest Indian attempting these climbs.'' What followed was a string of ascents: Unum (6,111m) in Himachal, Mount Kilimanjaro in Tanzania (5,895m), Labuche East (6,100m) and Kang Yatse II (6,250m) in Ladakh — each one completed between 2022 and 2023. 'I had initially thought I would attempt Everest after two or three more years,' Sood says. 'But after these climbs, I knew I was ready.' He intensified his training: gym workouts, 12km jogs, 25km midnight walks with a 15kg backpack, and stair climbs — 5,500 steps with weight. 'I trained six days a week, rested one. I've followed this routine for years now,' he says. 'Your body adapts. But your mind must lead.' In April 2024, Sood reached Nepal. With support from his children, siblings and a ₹500,000 sponsorship from SBI, he raised the ₹4 million required for the expedition. He scaled Island Peak (6,165m) as an acclimatisation climb. Then came the Everest base camp, rotations to higher camps, and finally, Camp 3 — the last major halt before the summit bid. But the mountain had other plans. In the days before his summit push, four climbers died near the top, including a young Indian who collapsed and never rose. Sherpas grew wary. 'They told me, 'Sir, we can't go ahead. At this height, there's no rescue. We've lost too many already.'' The final 1,500 metres remained — a climb up the near-vertical Lhotse Wall to Camp 4, followed by a 12-hour overnight ascent to the peak. 'I was just one night away,' Sood says. 'But the decision was made. I had to turn back.' 'Most people think mountaineering is about fitness,' he says. 'But it's 70 per cent mental. I've seen young climbers freeze, break down, give up at steep sections. Your body can be trained — but your mind must be unshakeable.' That mindset, Sood says, has shaped not just his climbs, but his life. Whether facing corporate stress, personal loss, or physical exhaustion, his approach is steady: 'Stay calm, prepare well, and never panic. That's the key to going forward.' Sood and his wife moved to Dubai in 2021 after losing their daughter to Covid. They now raise Umair, the grandson who inadvertently reawakened a dream. 'His question changed everything,' Sood says. 'And my wife has supported me through it all.' He eats light, never overeats, and maintains the same weight he had in his 40s. 'It's not just about climbing. It's about living with purpose.' 'That's the big question,' he says with a smile. 'My heart says yes. But Everest is expensive. Very expensive.' Still, he hasn't ruled it out. He's open to support and hopeful that one more chance will come. Even if it doesn't, Raman Chander Sood's story is already a towering achievement — a testament to resilience, discipline, and the idea that age is just a number when your purpose is clear. And sometimes, the climb itself is enough.
South China Morning Post
05-07-2025
- Science
- South China Morning Post
Nepal uses drones to clean up Mount Everest's trash-covered slopes
Human waste, empty oxygen cylinders, kitchen leftovers and discarded ladders. Sherpas working on Mount Everest carry all that and more – 20 kilograms (44 pounds) per person – navigating a four-hour hike that traverses crumbling glacial ice and treacherous crevasses to bring trash back to base camp. During the most recent climbing season, they had new help from two giant SZ DJI Technology Co. drones, which can complete the same journey in six minutes, sharing the task of clearing an expanding volume of refuse piling up on the world's highest peak. Drones have been deployed to haul garbage from Everest's Camp 1, which sits at 6,065 metres (19,898 feet) above sea level, down to base camp, about 700 metres below. After a DJI FlyCart 30 delivers supplies like ropes and ladders up the peak, Sherpas hook on a debris-filled garbage bag for the drone's return journey as it buzzes down the mountain, sounding like an oversized mosquito. Between mid-April and mid-May, the drones operated by Nepal-based firm Airlift Technology handled more than 280 kilograms of refuse, according to the Sagarmatha Pollution Control Committee, a local non-profit that manages trash collection on Everest. The drones are part of a growing effort to clean the slopes of the mountain, which has become so trash-strewn it's been referred to as the 'world's highest garbage dump.' Enlisting robots can help not only speed up the process but also reduce the danger for the Sherpas carrying decades-worth of garbage down the treacherous peak.
NDTV
03-07-2025
- NDTV
Drones Clean "World's Highest Garbage Dump" At Mount Everest
Human waste, empty oxygen cylinders, kitchen leftovers and discarded ladders. Sherpas working on Mount Everest carry all that and more - 20 kilograms (44 pounds) per person - navigating a four-hour hike that traverses crumbling glacial ice and treacherous crevasses to bring trash back to base camp. During the most recent climbing season, they had new assistance from two giant SZ DJI Technology Co. drones, which can complete the same journey in six minutes, sharing the task of clearing an expanding volume of refuse piling up on the world's highest peak. Drones have been deployed to haul garbage from Everest's Camp 1, which sits at 6,065 meters (19,898 feet) above sea level down to base camp, about 700 meters below. After a DJI FlyCart 30 delivers supplies like ropes and ladders up the peak, Sherpas hook on a debris-filled garbage bag for the drone's return journey as it buzzes down the mountain, sounding like an oversized mosquito. Between mid-April and mid-May, the drones operated by Nepal-based firm Airlift Technology handled more than 280 kilograms of refuse, according to the Sagarmatha Pollution Control Committee, a local non-profit that manages trash collection on Everest. The drones are part of a growing effort to clean the slopes of the mountain, which has become so trash-strewn, it's been referred to as the "world's highest garbage dump." Enlisting robots can help not only speed up the process but also reduce the danger for the Sherpas carrying decades-worth of garbage down the treacherous peak. "We're very happy," said Lhakpa Nuru Sherpa, a 33-year-old Sherpa at local expeditions firm Asian Trekking who has reached the summit of Everest 15 times. He estimates that about 70% of the garbage usually carted off the mountain by his team was transported by drone this year. "When you're coming down from Camp 1 and it's warm, you can smell the garbage," and that has caused respiratory problems for some Sherpas, he said. "We want more drones carrying heavier weights." The 8,849-meter Everest has seen an influx of trash since the 1990s, when visiting grew in popularity following multiple successful summit attempts. During climbing season, which typically lasts from late April until the end of May, tens of thousands of people trek to base camp, though only hundreds attempt to reach the top of the peak each year. Everest's garbage problem is worst at higher altitude campsites, which are also more challenging to clean given the logistical hurdles of reaching them. Since 2019, the Nepalese army and Sherpas have worked together to remove more than 100 tons of waste from the mountain and several surrounding peaks. In the last decade, the government has also implemented rules requiring climbers who venture above base camp to carry back at least 8 kilograms of trash each or risk forfeiting a $4,000 deposit that those visiting the mountain must pay. Climate change is only adding to the urgency to clean Everest. Snow and ice are melting, exposing decades-old garbage that can contaminate waterways fed by the runoff and that flow down to villages below. To combat the risks of human waste spreading diseases such as cholera, local officials last year put in place regulations compelling climbers to keep it in doggy bags to be brought back to base camp. At the same time, rising temperatures are making trash collection more dangerous. Ice is weakening, crevasses are widening and meltwater within the Khumbu Glacier - situated between base camp and Camp 1 - is causing ice blocks to collapse more quickly. At lower altitudes, the Khumbu Icefall at the head of the glacier "is by far the most dangerous part of the mountain, and towards the end of the season, it starts to melt," said Tenzing David Sherpa, a director at Asian Trekking, which employs about 30 Sherpas. "It is much safer for drones to bring down the waste." The Chinese drones, which cost $70,000 each, can fly in temperatures of minus-20C and brave wind speeds of more than 40 kmh. Asian Trekking said it would pay for Airlift's equipment and trash delivery services if the drone company decides to officially offer them commercially. Even so, there are limitations. Drones aren't able to reach higher campsites, where the air is too thin to fly. Weather at high altitude can also be erratic, and during a flight in April, a drone automatically deployed a parachute when wind speeds hit more than 60 kmh. The machine was then dragged and damaged by further gusts. The accident highlighted the need for specialized insurance before expanding the project, according to Tshering Sherpa, SPCC's chief executive officer. Such policies are not currently readily available and "if we don't have any insurance, it is a very high-risk project," he said. Airlift, which is working with Nepalese authorities, is planning to try more drone models on Everest and the country's other 8,000-meter peaks, said co-founder Milan Pandey. At least five drone manufacturers from the US and Europe have already reached out to Airlift offering their equipment for testing, Pandey said. At these altitudes, "we're the only company in the world doing this operation." (Except for the headline, this story has not been edited by NDTV staff and is published from a syndicated feed.)
