I’m sitting in the back of a battered twin-engine swaying and lurching through the Himalayan skies, feeling like I’m in a scene from Indiana Jones. One eye is fixed on the cool white fangs of stone outside and the other on the pilots in the open cockpit ahead, who’ve been engaged in a rather long, animated dialogue for the last ten minutes. Jeevan, my impish Nepali guide, all of 23, is for once very quiet. It’s a bad sign. The plane suddenly drops into a steepling dive and there’s a juddering bump underfoot. “Brace, brace, brace!” I cry wildly. There’s no need. We’ve just landed at Lukla airport.

Perched 2,860m up on the edge of Nepal’s Himalayan trail, this is the first outpost on the route to Base Camp. After that terrifying journey I exit into a perfectly clear blue sky. It all looks rather pleasant.

I’m embarking on a ten-day trek to reach the foot of Mount Everest, at some 5,500m above sea level, and the first scene that greets me is a picturesque one. Gently undulating valleys mingle with farm fields. Milk-coloured rivers churn under swaying steel bridges. The sun shines above mountains. It all seems pretty spectacularly normal.

There are, however, a few telltale signs of change. For one, there’s very few tourists around. Being February, crowds are usually thin at this time of year but trekker volumes have plummeted since the devastating earthquake that hit the country in April 2015. Walking in Kathmandu’s tourist zone, Thamel, the day before I noticed the empty streets and shops where vendors sat wistfully waiting for customers. From my perspective, the fewer crowds the better. However, I don’t have to live here or derive my main income from tourism. The trekking trails and teashops have been open for months but not many are coming.

At least I’m determined to help matters as best I can. The trail out of Lukla is very reasonable. As we reach the small village of Phakding for lunch, where I try my first dal bhat – the ubiquitous Nepali dish of lentils, rice and vegetables – I’m barely breaking a sweat. We’re greeted by Pari Sherpa – or ‘Aunty’ as Jeevan calls her – a charming lady who runs this guesthouse. “It looks as if none of these places suffered very much,” I say. She tells me otherwise. Her own house nearby was knocked down and she’s currently living with her brother. I ask her when she’ll get her own place. She has no idea, she doesn’t have the money to rebuild. Government assistance hasn’t been great and a lot of the foreign aid was scooped up by others. The region depends more than ever on outside visitors, which makes the drop-off in tourism all the more galling.

We go through babbling brooks, cedar forests and creamy cliffs into the heart of the mountains

I also speak to an NGO from South Korea who tells me that problems are still rife. The government’s a pretty venal lot and aid has been poorly dispersed. It’s a shame considering the tough lot of the average Nepali at the best of times. But still they persevere.

Leaving Aunty, we continue up increasingly steep mountain paths. We’re passed by very young and very old men lugging unfeasibly heavy 50kg loads on their backs springing up the paths like bucks. It looks inhuman to me, grappling with my own 20kg pack and now starting to feel something of a burning sensation creep into my legs.

Sagarmatha (the Nepali name for Everest, meaning ‘forehead in the sky’) National Park is entered through a high wooden gate and contains three of the ten highest peaks in the world, including the big one itself.

Our journey takes us through babbling brooks, cedar forests and creamy cliffs into the heart of the mountains. Along the way we pass some of the local wildlife including Nepal’s national bird, the Himalayan monal, which looks a lot like a technicolour pheasant. I feel rather full of myself for getting here. Even more so when I get my first look at Everest, glimmering shyly in the distance. If I knew half of what was ahead of me I wouldn’t be so cocky.

That evening we reach Namche Bazaar, the stepped mountain village and Sherpa capital at 3,440m. The clouds roll in like a giant exhalation of smoke and the temperature plunges to -15ºC. It’s my first taste of proper cold. My clothing, bought in a cheap sports warehouse back in Blighty, is simply inadequate and the dining hall fan-heater raises a mere whimper of warmth.

Still, though I’ve got a dull thud in my brain, I’m thankful for no major altitude sickness. I’ve already seen two red rescue choppers whizzing down from the heights filled with faint trekkers and I hope I won’t be in one. Dreams are weird, however. I get strange montages of spinning wheels, footballs, YouTube videos, condensed milk.

We continue uphill through snow-flecked woods towards the large yellow monastery of Tengboche. As we hit 4,000m I suddenly find myself very fatigued. The way is littered with warning signs – ‘If you start to feel dizzy, descend now.’ On top of this is the nightly cold. It really is pitiless. Chills start to hit you the moment you leave the fireplace. Going to the toilet becomes an act of insanity.

Over in the Gorkha region, some 150 miles to the west near the epicentre of the quake, hundreds of people have had to brave a freezing winter in makeshift tents. I wonder how they cope.

Day seven and it’s the final stretch. By the time I’m at Gorak Shep, the last stopping point before Base Camp, I’m bedraggled and wilting. I have a manly tomato soup and a word with myself. I can do this. Fixing myself with all my macho bravado, I puff out my chest and start walking like I mean it. We go hard for four hours. The paths are rocky and uneven passing under craning cliffs laced with teetering boulders. This is the very road that Sir Edmund Hillary took, that George Malory may have walked on his way to tackle the North Face and others of heroic mien who did things to make the world stand up and go “wow!”

Sadly, none of these things are passing through my mind as I traverse the last section to Base Camp, stumbling round like a drunk with energy levels at an all-time low. When we reach it, at 5,364m above sea level, I’m drained of power, doubled over like a wizened hag. My first thought is that the place resembles a rock-festooned construction site. There’s the Base Camp monument here, a pile of stones decorated with colourful flags, but not much else. Then I look up and see her – boom! Up ahead, a massive slate-grey triangle dominating two other massive mountains. I gasp again, but this time it’s from awe.

I feel exhilarated, like from some kind of mad torture

Jeevan beckons me to the Khumbu glacier at the foot of the mountain – we haven’t much time before dusk. I follow gingerly. Down below is like a frozen sculpture park. Tall, glimmering walls of ice tower over a frozen lake. I take a few tentative steps but the ice doesn’t crack. Jeevan’s already there circling like a professional ice skater. I look around and realise I’m under the shadow of the tallest mountain in the world. We skate on ice by the glacier. I’m revived. It’s wonderful.

There’s one final task next morning. Kala Patthar (Black Rock) is a rocky peak that offers the best view of Everest (and is also the location of the world’s highest webcam, just in case you’re wondering…). You have to be there for sunrise, they say. But when I’m woken at 3am after a couple of fitful hours of sleep, the temperature -20ºC outside, the water bottle I left by my bed entirely frozen again, I’m in a funk. I grasp around for my boots, put on the head torch and ever so slowly begin to walk. The moon offers very little light. The winds are howling, legs step barely two paces before I need to rest. But with Jeevan’s help, I scrabble up the steep ascent.

When we finally reach the top it’s still only 5.30am – it’s pitch black and freezing and there’s no trace of sun. Somehow I find it ridiculously funny; I feel exhilarated, like from some kind of mad torture. Jeevan promises that sunrise should be any second now. An hour passes and the sky, like our faces, turns from purple to aquamarine to blue to lilac, yet no sun rises over the mountain. I’m in a hurricane and yet I’m on top of the world, and I can see everything ahead and above me. At last there is a trickle of sun; I look to my right and Jeevan’s there grinning wildly and I feel my whole being touched. I’ll take the aching bones, gasping lungs and bedragglement if it means returning again one day.

Getting There

Tara Air operates two daily flights from Kathmandu to Lukla Airport for £100, taraair.com. Trekking agencies in Kathmandu offer all-inclusive packages with guide, food and stay at tea houses and trekking equipment from £700 to £1,500. Remember to tip your guide.