I meet my guide Sai, and as it transpires I am not solo after all. Five young-adult travellers make us a multicultural party of six and a recipe for a bar joke: an Englishman, a Scotsman, a Pole and a Kiwi walk into a park. In a spiritual mash up I salute the mighty mountain with a Russian sit down (a Strannik tradition to pause before departure), and a silent Māori Karakia, and then we walk….upwards.

Around 130 people walk up this mountain every day but it doesn’t feel like it; we naturally spread out. As 130 humans walk up, 130 humans walk down. Good lucks are exchanged for congratulations as the upward greet the downward. There is banter, encouragement, smiles and grimaces, all in electric solidarity. If breathless, glances say enough. It is a well-oiled machine: logistics and coordination are seamless.

We are humbled to learn that everything on the mountain is human-hauled. Absolutely everything. Potatoes, gas tanks, coca-cola, fresh linen, steel scaffolding, and all sorts, pass us by strapped on the backs of porters. Each load is further distributed by a tumpline, a traditional strap around the forehead to balance things out for the carrier. All construction materials for a new lodge are man-hauled. Young men, middle-aged men, older men, but no women. Of the 300 registered mountain guides there are only a handful of women. Sai tells me the number of women guides reduced following the devastating 2015 earthquake, when 18 people were killed.

So we walk and we talk, when breathing allows. I get to know my companions. It is not lost on me that I once again have young people with me on summit attempt two and frankly they just make things better. I love their enthusiasm, their chatter. They are young and fun and it rubs off. The questions they ask our guide are smart and their curiosity wanders about. They are interested and interesting. They didn’t bring enough money, or enough water; I see my 20-year-old self in them and gladly assist with both. I am almost twice their age and they are almost twice my height.

Following a sleepless half-night we get up at 1am and ascend in the dark by torchlight. It’s quite tricky. Step by step up flights of zig zag steps, rope lines, rock hopping, and rock-climbing, sometimes on all fours, we gain altitude. My young team are now worn out and scratchy, feeling the effects of no sleep, altitude sickness, stomach aches, headaches, dizziness, being hot then being cold, breathless, and being a long way from home. I hear a few quiet grumbles, “I don’t think I can do this”, and I think, “I know you can”, and they do, and because I am 50 and they are 25, I understand it’s all that much sweeter because it is difficult.