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Everest Trail Race – An Ultra Trail Adventure Like No Other
After a day-and-a-half journey around the globe, I arrive in Kathmandu, Nepal. Here, I meet for the first time the 33 participants of the 11th edition of the Everest Trail Race. An exclusive group of runners from different parts of the world, their faces marked by experience and determination—qualities that will be sorely needed in the coming days, as this race is undoubtedly one of the most demanding in the world.
As evening falls and the wind bites cold, I crawl into our tent, whose only comfort is a narrow mattress. I spread out my down sleeping bag to warm up and start organizing my meticulously packed gear by priority under the light of my Petzl headlamp.
It’s important to know that from the evening before departure to the start location, no gear or clothing may be added or removed. Everything has been listed in the gear check and is regularly inspected. I just hope I have enough warm clothing—I’m already feeling the chill. I skimped here because my focus is on performance, not comfort. Despite my precautions, my competitive spirit got the better of me, and I haven’t really brought much warm gear.
Feeling frozen, I decide to head to the communal tent to warm up and meet new participants. Upon entering, I’m pleased to see hot tea available. The warmth of the cup in my cold hands is comforting, and several runners apparently had the same idea. It’s not exactly cozy inside, but the interesting conversations and tea help distract from the cold.
At first glance, 170 kilometers over six stages may not sound too daunting. But once you factor in the staggering total elevation gain and loss of 26,000 meters, you start to wonder how this is even possible. And if I tell you that all this takes place at an average altitude of around 3,000 meters above sea level, with views of some of the world’s highest peaks, you’ll be as breathless as I am.
The highest point, Pikey Peak at 4,097 meters, is a serious challenge, as are overnight stays in tents in sub-zero temperatures.
First, I want to share a few details about the race route so you can get a sense of the demands of such an endeavor. The race takes place in the Solukhumbu region of Nepal, renowned for its natural beauty and a favorite for trekking. Globally, it is best known for the trail through the Himalayas that leads to the world’s highest mountain, Mount Everest. Runners must traverse this national park to reach their goal.
Typically, one would fly after a 4–5-hour bus ride from Kathmandu to Manthali Airport, then take a 20-minute flight to Lukla to reach the area. We, however, take a different route, traveling nine hours by bus over bumpy and questionable gravel roads to a location unknown to us.
Yes—unknown! You heard that right. That’s part of the race’s unique challenge. Until the evening before the race, there is no information about the route, let alone a GPX file to preview. Naturally, this does not make the challenge any easier.
I still remember the expression on the local driver’s face as he dropped us off in the middle of nowhere, at 2,964 meters above sea level, in a small tent camp. He leaned casually against his colorful bus, finished his cigarette, laughed briefly, got into his vehicle, and drove off in a cloud of dust. At that moment, I felt like a stray dog.
With all my belongings and the mandatory gear—which barely fits into my already comically small running backpack—I stand in the short line to be assigned a two-person tent. Tents are sometimes organized by nationality, sometimes mixed—a fascinating combination, I think. My tent partner is less exotic, coming from my own country, Italy. Just to clarify, I’m from South Tyrol, which is mostly German-speaking due to its proximity to the Austrian border but still belongs to Italy. Andrea F., my tent partner, will share joy and hardship with me over the coming days.
The tent city consists of two-person participant tents, two standing tents with holes in the floor for emergencies, a communal tent mainly for meals, and the organization’s tents, which we are forbidden to enter except in medical emergencies.
Only when all participants gather for the communal meal at the single long table (since standing isn’t really an option) does it get a bit warmer, and I can at least remove my hat. I prefer to keep my thick jacket on. It gets loud, as most participants are from Spain and even surpass us Italians in vocal volume. Interestingly, there are no German speakers this time—but perhaps you can change that next time!
The food is brought on large iron plates to the entrance of the elongated tent, and since no one can reach the back, the plates are simply passed from front to back. Each participant hands it to the person next to them. A sense of togetherness arises, as we all share a precious resource. Over the coming days, we will become like one big family, even though during the day we will compete fiercely against each other.
The race begins: after a cold, sleepless night, during which my body had to suddenly adjust to the altitude and sent me to the toilet every half hour, we were awakened at 6 a.m. by a loud, Nepalese-sounding call. To our delight, warm tea was delivered to our tent, bringing a little brightness to the icy morning. I glanced at my tentmate, and unrestrained enthusiasm definitely looked different.
Nevertheless, a look out of the tent promised a magnificent, sunny day. After a hearty breakfast—which I unfortunately could not fully enjoy due to the upcoming race—and a Spartan morning routine, I decided to climb the adjacent hill to take a few first photos of the Everest massif. It was only a small hill, but by the time I reached the top, I was completely out of breath and got another preview of the altitude and the challenges that awaited during the race.
The starting gun fired—a bang from a pistol—and we were off. I already knew that this race would feature a unique route. A glance at the roadbook had confirmed it. But no matter which of the six stages I looked at, all I could do was shake my head in disbelief at the next day’s incredible course. How was this even supposed to be manageable when a small hill had already left me breathless?
Right at the start came a fast, technically demanding downhill, and it was difficult to find the trail. I lost sight of the lead group for a moment, and suddenly I was lost. It was clear that navigating without the usual digital support wouldn’t be easy, but over the days, I wasn’t the only one to stray off course. Despite being extra vigilant, it happened to me more often than I would have liked—even though all it took was a little more attention. Concentration isn’t always as strong as you’d like it to be.
The first stage, already requiring a chase to catch up, pushed me hard, and on the final 1,000-meter ascent up to 3,490 meters, I felt like I was breaking. I couldn’t fully appreciate the scenery yet, but arriving in front of a 4,000-meter peak slated for the next day was already imposing.
To celebrate the day, there was warm water—a precious commodity here, especially given the lack of electricity. Unfortunately, the sun was hidden behind clouds, and the temperature was already approaching zero or even below. As a result, I couldn’t fully enjoy the warm water from a jug without being instantly shocked by the icy wind.
It was actually quite strange, because during the day, when the sun is out, temperatures are pleasantly between 15 and 20 degrees Celsius. But as soon as a cloud covers the sun, it suddenly gets freezing. You really had to plan carefully when to wash your clothes so they would dry in time. Unfortunately, I didn’t know this on that day, and so my race outfit, well… froze. Bad luck, I’d say, especially when, like me, you don’t have a backup set.
The second night was truly brutal. Damn, it was cold. I had to use my down jacket as an improvised foot warmer, and even then, I barely found any rest. I made myself as comfortable as possible and mentally prepared for the upcoming summit assault on Pikey Peak, the highest point of the race.
The next morning, still before sunrise, I tried to slip out of the tent and, in the beam of my headlamp, saw that the interior was sparkling. It was ice, formed from the condensation of our breath. I tapped on the zipper to loosen it, but the tent was completely frozen both inside and out. After futile attempts to thaw my frozen running clothes, I put them on—somewhat surreal in my exhausted state—and struggled out of the tent.
The sunrise that followed was the most heart-stirring and beautiful thing I had ever experienced. The sun bathed the ground, covered in frost flowers, in golden light and rewarded us for our previous hardships. This stunning image of the sunrise accompanied me throughout the following days of the race.
The push to the summit proved brutal, surpassing anything my ultra-running experience had prepared me for. The steep ascent at 4,000 meters and the thin air took a toll on me, making me dizzy and forcing me to slow my pace to avoid collapsing.
Reaching the summit, with its colorful prayer flags and breathtaking panoramic views of all the high peaks of the Himalayas, made the climb truly special.
During the further course of the race, I gained insights into the world of the Nepalis and remained fascinated by their simple way of life, religious rituals, and strong faith.
To avoid going through each of the six stages in detail, I’ll put it this way: my favorite daily phrase at the briefing was, “Attention, this stage is much more difficult compared to the others.” Every day I was at my limit, completely exhausted, and could not imagine that it could get even harder—but it definitely did.
The harshest conditions also demand the best equipment. For me, only the very best would do. Thanks to my favorite Joe Nimble shoes and the perfect synergy with Bauerfeind compression socks, my feet were perfectly cared for, and I experienced no problems. Skinfit clothing is of the highest quality anyway and fully met my athlete’s requirements.
The question of poles—yes or no? Absolutely! Without my Komperdell folding poles, I would have been lost. I usually use them in ultra-mountain races and hadn’t needed them for shorter runs of about 25 km. But here, nobody wanted to go without their poles—not even the Nepalis.
In addition, sleeplessness continued to plague me, and altitude sickness manifested with an increasingly dry cough. Even though there was the possibility to relax briefly in the afternoon sun, the effort still pushed me to my mental limits. It was always comforting and uplifting to receive printed emails from home and friends from the organizers once a day. Other than that, there was no contact with the outside world.
A special paragraph goes to the food lovingly prepared by the locals. Normally, the food is very spicy, but for us, it was somewhat toned down. However, the amount of garlic used in the dishes took some getting used to. In the famous Nepali garlic soup—which, by the way, is a secret tip to help with altitude sickness—there are at least five garlic bulbs per plate. Don’t worry, after two or three days, you don’t even notice it yourself. I simply found the soup fantastic and will definitely prepare it like this at home.
As we approached the highlands of Namche Bazaar and the finish in Lukla, the counter-traffic of porters and mules increased significantly. When such encounters happen on one of the many shaky, narrow suspension bridges—like the New Hillary Bridge, about 70 meters above the ground—it requires either patience until the traffic subsides or strong nerves and skill in maintaining balance. Since my focus was on competing for the front positions, I opted for the impatient route and had to accept a few bruises from gas cylinders.
What makes the Everest Trail Race so special is this: no matter how tired and exhausted you are, the curiosity about what comes next—or which incredible sights lie ahead—always prevails and fuels your adventurous drive. It was never an option not to climb out of the tent every morning or to give up.
Well, admittedly, there were one or perhaps several moments when I came close—but where else would you go here? You can’t just stop and wait for the sweep vehicle to bring you back comfortably. There are no roads or cars in this area. Instead, you either press the emergency button on your GPS tracker, and for $500 (credit card details must have already been provided in advance) a helicopter will pick you up and take you straight to Kathmandu—or you get your spoiled European butt moving yourself.
After six days and five sleepless nights, it was finally time. Civilization wanted me back, and the air traffic at the infamous Lukla airport could already be heard and seen. For those who might not know: this airport, with its runway measuring only 527 meters and its extreme location that allows no room for aborted takeoffs or landings, is considered one of the most dangerous airports in the world. It was on one of these tiny planes that I would be catapulted back to Kathmandu the next day. Dear God, be with me.
But first, focus on the finish line. So many thoughts raced through my mind—what lay before, beneath, and behind me. Incredible, I thought. So many hours of preparation and training, two years of planning and sacrifices—and now it all culminated in one of the most remote places on Earth. I could hardly comprehend it when suddenly a camera pulled me out of my bubble, thrust into my face, announcing my arrival at the finish line. Overwhelming joy, indescribable pride, and a touch of melancholy that it was already over washed over me as I ran through the finish line tape with arms raised high.
Finishing in 5th place made all the effort worthwhile and led me into the arms of the race director, Jordi, who expressed his recognition and congratulations, embraced me, and gave me a ceremonial white silk scarf, a Katha, as a sign of respect.
All my experiences and adventures are so deeply etched into my memory that I will never forget them. The other participants, who by the way all reached the goal, have become just as dear to me as the crew of organizers. You have all become my friends and like a family that is always warmly welcome with me.
Nepal, see you again!!!
Want to learn more about Jens’ running adventures? Follow him on Instagram and all social media @lordjenskramer.
Autor: Lord Jens Kramer
Instagram: @lordjenskramer
YouTube: @lordjenskramer6088
Blog: lordjenskramer.com
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