The Sherpa Widows of Khumbu: Resilience and Transformation

Mount Everest stands as the pinnacle of adventure tourism. For the Sherpa people of Khumbu, it also represents both a livelihood and a source of immense hardship.

Sitting on a wooden bench overlooking Namche Bazaar, a remote mountain town in northeastern Nepal, I observed a caravan of mules transporting cooking gas cylinders making their way toward the main road.

It was late afternoon, and the cloudless mid-November sky showcased the towering peaks of Kongde Ri to the west and Thameserkhu to the east in all their glory.

Namche is the largest town in the Khumbu region, the gateway to Mount Everest. Ever since Tenzing Norgay, a native of Khumbu, and Sir Edmund Hillary summited in 1953, Everest has transformed the region into a bustling tourism hub. The area is also home to Nepal’s largest population of Sherpas, an ethnic group with origins in Eastern Tibet.

Since that historic Everest ascent, many ethnic Sherpa have worked as porters, cooks, and guides on mountaineering expeditions. Sherpas play vital roles in the trekking and mountaineering industries, making the term ‘sherpa’ synonymous with expedition staff, even though not all ‘sherpas’ belong to the ethnic group.

A Town for Mountaineers

The most common way to reach Namche is through a small propeller plane that flies into Lukla’s Tenzing Hillary Airport (elevation 2860m) from Kathmandu. Dubbed the world’s most dangerous airport, it features a runway of only 527 meters. The drop beyond the runway is a steep 600-meter valley, providing little room for error for pilots. Since the area lacks motorable roads, those looking to explore must be prepared to trek. The 19-km trail from Lukla to Namche winds up and down rugged hills blanketed with pine and rhododendron forests, leading past serene Sherpa villages.

Despite everything needing to be flown in from Kathmandu, Namche is surprisingly well-equipped. Cafes offer cappuccinos and freshly baked pastries, while restaurants serve burgers, biryani, pizzas, and poutine. The streets are lined with shops selling both knock-off and genuine North Face jackets, the latter costing two months’ salary for an average Nepali.

“Once the goods land at Lukla airport, we have to manage porters and mules to transport items here,” said Pasang Tsering Sherpa, owner of Sherpa Barista, known for delicious blueberry apple pie and chocolate mud cake. “It’s challenging to run a business here in Namche, but it’s much simpler than what my father endured in his time.”

Pasang’s father worked as a porter for mountaineering outfitters. “Back then, there were limited options; people had to work as porters to earn money,” he explained. “But that hard-earned income built the thriving Namche you see today.”

As expedition tourism once served as the town’s lifeblood, the younger generation has now found greater opportunities within the industry—hospitality, for instance, is perceived as a more lucrative path, complemented by its relative safety.

Deeper into the Mountains

After spending two days in Namche, I set off towards the village of Thameteng. The trail began with a sharp climb as the towering rhododendrons gave way to shorter juniper shrubs. I was nearing the treeline’s end.

I aimed to visit Thameteng, hoping to meet Ang Ngimi Sherpa, a strong example of the resilience found within the Sherpa community. Mountaineering has historically provided employment in the Khumbu, but at tremendous cost. Over 100 years of Everest expeditions have resulted in 312 deaths, with one-third being Sherpas. In April 2014, Ang Ngimi’s husband was among the sixteen Sherpas killed in an avalanche in the Khumbu Icefall, after serving as a climbing guide for six years.

Upon arriving in Thame (3800m), where I would spend the night, the village is situated at the foot of the Kongde Ri (6187m) and Tengkangpoche (6550m) mountains. From Thame, the village of Thameteng is a mere 20-minute hike away.

When I reached the hill separating Thame from Thameteng, I met Kami Rita Sherpa, who offered directions to Ang Ngimi’s residence. Kami, 40, shared that he began working as a porter at just 16 years old and summited Everest for the thirteenth time in April 2021. Outside of the busy climbing seasons, many like Kami return to their villages to assist their families in farming and caring for yaks.

Upon arriving at Ang Ngimi’s house, I found the door locked, and disappointment washed over me. Many villagers had suggested she might have left for the mountains to graze her yaks.

Suddenly, I heard footsteps approaching down a steep hill. It was Ang Ngimi, adorned in a dark grey chupa, traditional attire synonymous with many ethnic groups from Nepal’s mountainous regions.

She hurriedly explained that she had to leave; her son was sick at school in Namche. “There’s no cell service here, so I’ll need to find another spot to call,” she said while rushing down the hill.

When I finally caught up with Ang Ngimi, she stood outside a local lodge, the only one in the village with a telephone. Upon seeing me, she quickly wiped her tears and smiled, relieved to learn her son only had a mild fever; she could wait until morning to reach Namche.

Meeting the Widows of Everest

While sharing warm cups of milk tea in the lodge’s bright dining area, Ang Ngimi recounted her journey of raising her four children (ages 20, 18, 16, and 14) alone.

“I always worried about my husband’s climbing work,” she shared. “Each time he left for an expedition, anxiety kept me awake every night.”

Following her husband’s tragic passing, Ang Ngimi received 1 million rupees (approximately US$8370) in compensation. The climbing company that employed her husband also sponsored her children’s education. After the 2014 Everest tragedy, the government raised the minimum insurance for Sherpas on Everest to Rs 1.5 million.

Despite receiving aid, Ang Ngimi faced the struggle of replacing her family’s income; she had to seize every small opportunity for income in these isolated mountains.

“I grow and sell potatoes, cut grass in the mountains to sell to livestock owners, and care for my yaks. During the climbing season, I transport goods to Everest Base Camp with my yak train,” she explained. “It’s challenging, but life has always presented challenges in these mountains.”

I began my trek from Thame to Thamo late in the morning, arriving in the afternoon. I lunched at the Mt Everest Camp 2 lodge, managed by 70-year-old Ang Riku Sherpa. In 2014, her husband was also on the expedition when the fatal avalanche hit; his body was never recovered.

That fateful 2014 Everest expedition was supposed to be his last, with plans to retire and manage the lodge together with his wife.

Now, Ang Riku operates the lodge alone, handling every task from cooking to cleaning. Depending on the season, her small garden yields a variety of vegetables, including carrots, potatoes, cauliflower, radishes, and pumpkins. For our lunch, she picked spinach and carrots from her garden to prepare a hearty vegetable curry.

“My husband and I planned to run this place together; now I am handling everything alone. It can get lonely here,” she shared with tears streaming down her face. “It’s more manageable when tourists are around, but due to the recent decline in visitors, I have had more free time to miss him. Life goes on, but it does get tough.”

At Tashi Dele Restaurant and Lodge, I met Lhamo Choeki Sherpa, whose husband vanished after an avalanche struck near Baruntse’s summit (7162m) in 2010. With a remarkable 19 summits of Everest, he was a noted climber, and his absence deeply affected the Khumbu’s mountaineering community. He left behind two sons, now aged 24 and 22.

Lhamo, a calm and soft-spoken woman, offered drinks before engaging in conversation. However, she requested to refrain from discussing the specifics of her husband’s passing. The grief was palpable.

She recounted that when her husband was alive, they lived in Kathmandu, sending their children to school. Now, she survives through running the lodge and selling potatoes during the off-season. One son supports the family from the United States, where he moved after receiving a scholarship in 2018.

Before I departed, I inquired about her feelings concerning mountaineering as a career.

“While understanding that people are drawn to mountaineering, the profession causes tremendous emotional distress to families and, in tragic cases, insufferable grief,” she replied.

From Grief to Triumph

Conversely, there’s Nima Doma Sherpa, from Khumjung, a prominent village in the Khumbu region. I met Nima in Kathmandu before my journey to Khumbu. Her husband also perished during an Everest expedition in 2014.

“His death shattered me entirely,” she recalled. “Numerous Nepali and foreign journalists approached me with questions, and I assured them I would never look at the mountains again.”

Two years following his death, Nima relocated to Kathmandu to be near her children attending school in the city. In 2017, she turned to work as a trekking guide, struggling initially but ultimately finding her footing.

“While guiding treks, I reflected on my late husband’s ambition to conquer Everest,” she revealed. “He never fulfilled that dream, hence I concluded that to honor him, I must summit Everest myself and began rigorous preparations.”

After extensive training—mentally and physically—in May 2019, Nima, along with another widow, reached the world’s highest peak.

On my final morning in Namche, I arose early and wandered the town once more. Most shops remained closed. Sleepy-eyed workers prepared their restaurants for incoming tourists. In a narrow alley, I observed an elderly woman perform a daily Sherpa ritual of burning juniper leaves.

On my return trek to Lukla, I encountered a group of teenage Sherpa boys walking home from school. When asked about their future aspirations, one expressed a desire to be a doctor, another wanted to be a teacher, one fantasized about moving to New York, while the fourth chuckled at the notion of becoming a pilot. Not one of them voiced an ambition to become a mountaineering guide.