Nepal. A mystical land set high in the Himalayas, filled with monks, mountains and gun toting Maoists. A culture of temples and prayer flags, strong backed sherpas, snake charmers and sadhus. It?s one of my favourite places in the world.

I originally headed to Pokhara to partake in a paratrek organized by Sunrise Paragliding. It was good fun, heading to some remote mountain village, appreciating the locally brewed Raksi, flying over hills and valleys carved with millennia of rice growing. Damned good fun.

Pokhara is a great town to meet pilots. I hung there with a new and ever changing crowd. I chatted to one of the tandem pilots ? a Russian in my very bad Russian (Zdrazvoity, menia zavut Mark, kak vas zavut?) and asked what he did before being a paraglider. He fixed me with a smile, and calmy said ?I flew MiGs?. Wow.

Others here included Sean White, director of the excellent paragliding film ?Never Ending Thermal?, and one of the films stars, Claudio. We hung out a lot, and along with Raj, a local pilot became somewhat akin to permanent fixtures at the local pub the Busy Bee.

One night, whilst drinking the local beer ? Everest (a notorious hangover provider) sitting with Claudio, my Italian friend Tommaso and three lovely lasses from Montana the question was raised by one of the girls ? what?s the difference between paragliding and skydiving. Off the cuff I replied. ?Paragliders are all about staying up for as long as possible, skydiving is about going down as fast as possible. What sort of man do you want in your life?? They were sold. They signed up for tandem flights.

More drinks and a cunning plan was formulated, Everest Base Camp for Christmas Day. There is a certain appeal to being at ?10 degrees some 5384 meters in the air while wondering retrospectively if indeed we have been a good boys and girls this year?.

I deliberated on the matter of whether to fly or not. Taking a paraglider in addition to ones usual trekking paraphernalia is a commitment. One of those words that generally gives me cause to have an uncontrollable shiver, look in the opposite direction and then run like the wind.

While kicking back at our hotel, the supremely budget, blanket on a concrete slab Hotel Avocado in Pokhara, filling in the time learning Nepali and teaching the locals Blackjack (gambling is illegal in Nepal, tsk tsk tsk) the solution elegantly presented itself. Whilst losing a disturbing number of rupees to Hari, one of the hotel employees, I thought I would practice some Nepali? ?Tapaiko kaam ke ho?? (what is your work?). He looked up from counting his money, bastard had pulled off another blackjack, fixed me with a smile and said ?I am Hari, Hari Porter?.

If that?s not a sign to fly, Hari Porter, the seeker of the snitch and king of Quidditch then I do not know what is. I recruited him then and there to lug my paraglider for our two week planned Everest Base Camp trek. He then pulled out a very arsey 21, scooped up the remainder of our monies and left.

So with plan intact, myself, Tommaso and the three girls from Montana (it does get cold in the mountains!) we headed to Kathmandu and began our preparations, renting sleeping bags, jackets, waterproofs and arranging our flights.

The day dawned, December 15th, and at a very early, pre sunrise start headed to the airport. Security here was very concerned with grabbing my testicles, I guess on the off chance I was packing a sawn off shotgun or something down there, and after a series of very personal and intimate moments with the guards we were ready to board our plane? a Yeti airlines twin otter turbo prop.

It was short flight to Lukla, the starting point for our trek, and we chilled in the plane, until we saw the landing strip. It slopes? upward, and ends? in a very very solid cliff. The plane dived at the runway, at the last minute nosing up, touching down, and then decelerating outrageously to avert the imminent disaster of plowing into the rockface. Scant meters away it turns, does a neat 360 and stops outside the terminal. At this point we all remembered to breath again, and disembarked.

Our trek began and we began to climb, after a night at Phakding stopping for a couple of nights at Namche Bazar as part of the acclimatization process. While kicking in our lodge (trekking in Nepal is all about walking, then stopping at a guest house for the night, settling in around a pot belly stove fuelled by dried yak shit, and paying extortionate amounts of money for food and beverages) a Tibetan Lama walked in. I had a set of prayer flags that I wanted to get blessed, and then attach to my harness and fly around with. We exchanged smiles, so I went up to his to start a conversation. He knew no English, and my Nepali in this context translated roughly to ?I am going to Kala Pattar (Everest Base Camp) I am flying man?. His look was one that a parent would give to a child suspected of heavy drug abuse. Luckily Hari my porter was able to translate my request, and my prayer flags were blessed a process involving a cool rhythmical chant and grains of dried rice. A little boost to the karmic superannuation fund that I like to keep topped up for those hair-raising moments when I know I?ve made a little withdrawal on it.

So from Namche we continued upwards, more and more beginning to feel the effects of altitude, shortness of breath, tiredness, and most disturbingly ruminance. The lack of air pressure outside causing the pressure inside to be twice as dramatic. Our sleeping bags became nasty methane filled zeppelins as we slept. Just the high intensity process of stuffing a sleeping bag in the morning was enough to leave one gasping for breath. A local sherpa warned us away from sexual pursuits at high altitude?he said it was very dangerous. Aside from the cold, and its unflattering effects on my manhood, the lack of oxygen, and enthused energetic activity can result in all sorts of cardiac dangers. I agreed wholeheartedly with this sentiment, and for one more reason as well, I wanted my kahunas to be as large as possible for my imminent high altitude flights.

A couple of hard days trekking later we arrived at Chhukhung, at the base of Chhukhung Ri, a 5550 meter peak. We headed up there for sunset to check out the view, a long hard walk. But what a view, clouds rolling in, the sun setting and surrounded by the most beautiful mountains, and my favourite mountain of all? Ama Dablam. It was like we were staring at Heavens Gate. We were awestruck, gobsmacked, which held us for a few seconds before realization of it being freezing cold sent us racing back down to the warmth of our lodge. A plan was set to fly at dawn?.

Altitude sickness hit me for the first time then, killer headache, nausea, exhaustion. I took a Diamox ? a pill to increase ones breathing rate, and used for acclimatization purposes. An interesting side effect is it makes ones fingers and toes go all tingly, I am sure its got potential as a new street drug - ?Spirit Fingers?.

Dawn is an uncivilized time. It is far too early. Up here it is also no way in the world am I getting out of my sleeping bag cold. Our eyes opened, we had our breakfast of rock hard Snickers bars and with Hari lugging my glider, Tommaso his camera, and me my super sized kahunas we climbed the hill. It took a long exhausting time, and finally we collapsed on the peak.

The wind had picked up, considerably and was well, howling. At sea level I wouldn?t even have taken my wing out of its bag, but here, with the air so thin, it didn?t have that same fearful punch. I was still quite terrified, and figured that maybe Ill just get a few shots kiting the wing against a backdrop of Ama Dablam and the other majestic mountains of the Himalayas. Launch height? 18204 ft. One expects to see Boeings at this altitude.

I pulled it out, rigged up and began to kite. Thin the wind might be, but it was nasty, every direction at once turning my glider into an angry thrashing snake, a snake in mortal peril of being castrated would give some sense to its violence. In the thin air every control was exhausting, and we were all soon tired of pictures and playing. One more kite before packing up was the agreed timeframe, and it popped up nicely, a little whisper in my head got suddenly loud, and an overwhelming sense of ?fuck it? took over. I turned and ran? my feet leaving the ground and my cameraman caught unawares whipping around in a point and click frenzy. I left earth, feet in the air and suddenly I was airborne.

Bang! A collapse, I righted it and then noticed my descent rate. It was practically parachutal, I was hammering down fast, but my horizontal speed was even more impressive. I dodged a set of prayer flags by a whisker, hung conveniently between two peaks. It would have been embarrassing to have been taken out by a set of Buddhist prayer flags. I performed a couple of ridge passes before an interesting experiment with a high altitude wingover and then with my rather rapid descent rate thoughts about landing.

I lined up a flat field, surrounded by stone walls and hammered at it. A little flare popped me over the first wall before a tri wrap haul on the brake lines stopped me before hitting the second. It was tight. I was pumped. I whooped, I jumped, I ran about like a beheaded chicken. My friends came out, and jumped up and down with me, the locals looked on with open mouths, I packed, and then, had my second breakfast. Hobbit style.

A grand day, and after breakfast our onward quest to Everest Base Camp continued. It took an additional two days to reach Gorak Shep at 5180 m, the closest set of lodges to Base Camp. It is also at the base of Kala Pattar, a ridge with views to Mt Everest and Nuptse. It was here that I planned a second flight but bistari bistari (slowly slowly) lets do it tomorrow, and we settled in for the evening. That night stands clear in my mind, a midnight dash to the toilet for what can only be termed a bowel emergency had me in the bathroom, squatted and squirting. It wasn?t until after the event that I realized I had forgotten the western convenience of toilet paper. No problem, I am pretty down with the Nepali, left hand, jug of water, tip and wash style. I picked up the little jug, and went to fill it from the water reservoir (a big plastic bucket). I was disturbed to hear the chink of plastic on ice as I attempted to dip it in. I used a luckily placed broom to smash through the 2 inch think ice layer, to reveal the frigid contents below, filled the jug and went for it. Icy ring sting is a gentle euphemism to describe the sensation, a rectal probe with liquid nitrogen comes so much closer.

We arose the next day to ?mild? winds, and after waiting for Tommaso to finish doing his hair (bloody Italians) him, Hari and myself hiked up Kala Pattar. There was a strong wind blowing, but not enough to do a reverse launch - being too thin (launch height about 17500 ft, halfway up Kala Pattar) so alpine style it was to be. I set it out, and hauled it up. You really have to run hard when it?s like this, and at Ben Johnson pace I got feet off the ground. I hit something BIG, and Boomshanka?d straight up in the air. It was like one of those amusement fair vertical bungy numbers. Very traumatic. I was glad I had a high fibre breakfast.

It was a violent washing machine up there, I didn?t know what this high altitude air was capable of doing, but phrases like jet stream, spin drift and Tibetan border all raced through my mind. I wanted down. I big eared. I plummeted, it was the fastest big ears ever. Gorak Shep is fortunate enough to have a massive sand lakebed which serves as a perfect landing field, the sand is really fine, amusingly better then most beaches in Britain, and I suspect that the glacial water here is warmer too :D

It was to this I headed, breakneck pace, hoping to land elegantly on the big H helipad. I came in on my final, and the wind suddenly changed direction. My pace doubled, a loud ?Fuck? escaped my lips, not the ?Fuck? of mortal peril, but the more gentler version of ?dammit things just went tits up?. I hit the deck, letting my harness airbag show its worth, before a not so elegant flip onto my face and acquiring a free Himalayan sand exfoliation. I stood up, damned fickle Himalayan winds. As if to taunt me it switched once more and blew firm and strong right along my path. Still when one pits ones ego against the mountains you expect them to win. I let them have it?. this time?

That night was Christmas Eve. With the other trekkers there, a combination of high altitude, cigarettes and whiskey had us legless, giggling and celebrating in grand style. It was felt the next day. Santa brought me a sledgehammer, and his little elves hit me with it for most of Christmas day.

Our plan was for Everest Base Camp for Christmas. So we embarked, rather painfully and very slowly to base camp, some two hours away. We arrived, the location marked by a wrecked Russian helicopter that had crashed sometime ago. In true celebratory fashion, at a chilly ?10 at 5384m we posed naked (modesty provided by a little red Santa hat), snapped off photos and hoping that the girls were not noticing my ?slightly? cold affected manhood. We walked through the Khumbu glacier as we left, something I recommend to anyone. It?s a mystical fairyland of ice spires and turrets, huge flat sheets to slide on, icicles and crazy wind sculpted shapes. It?s wonderful. Sleep came early that day. We left the day after, crossing the Cho La pass and hitting Gokyo, another glacial spot with a number of frozen lakes. I hoped to fly there, but unfavourable winds, and a desire for a hot shower and new underwear had us planning a mission back to Kathmandu for New Years Eve. We raced back over a couple of days to Lukla, and then took our Yeti air plane back to the ?du, arriving early in the afternoon of the 31st. What a way to end a year. Viva 2005 I say!