In mid-December, 2014, I set out with a group of nine others, friends, co-workers, students and family from six different countries, to trek the Annapurna Circuit across the Himalayas of Central Nepal. While I trekked, I carried with me a journal and pen, and when I could warm my fingers sufficiently to write, collected bits and pieces of the journey. This is the story of this adventure...
December 8th, 2014
As the fall term draws to an end, I head
South to Bangalore with a group of faculty for India's first
Experiential Education Conclave. The EEC is hosted in an outdoor-adventure retreat centre, complete with outdoor pool, high
and low ropes courses and luxurious tents, set up especially for us
MUWCI folk—whose budget is too low for the rental cabins—pillows, duvets and all. For three days we sit in on
workshops and stay up late networking/socializing furiously with the people of India's experiential education (EE) scene. Our workshop, presenting UWC Mahindra's story of Outdoor Adventure (Arvin), the Triveni
project/service based learning program (Oscar and Ben) and the up and coming
Project Based Diploma (Cary), was one of the hits of the weekend; we couldn't resist spicing up the presentation with some role-playing, quick digs and funky music. The aftermath: meeting young people working across India in prisons, volunteering in public
schools, delivering heart-felt alternative education pedagogies, forsaking traditional working fields for something they believe
in. Some of the seasoned experiential education gurus have devoted followings and I am
reminded that we are in India.
From there, Arvin, Marija and I fly North from Bangalore to Delhi where we pick up Arvin's mum, Zeena (Warrior Princess) and then fly
across the border, leaving India behind for the first time since I arrived in August, and touching ground in
Kathmandu. And so we enter another world altogether.
Where's Waldo? Kathmandu: Photo credit: Wikipedia MediaCommons
Seldom have I so quickly felt like I
could stay in a place for seasons. The narrow crowded streets are full
of beautiful women and smiling men, the ubiquitous smell of incense. Tiny shops alternate between traditional basket weaving, tourist trinkets and a mix of top-notch alpine gear and cheap imitations, depending on
your budget.
We stay at Yala Peak Hotel in
Thamel—the tourist hub of Kathmandu. The place houses Rosemary, a restaurant that lists as no.4 in Kathmandu dining: lovely jazz music by day, candlelit
by night, all run by lovely young lads. Here we meet up with our group
of five UWC Mahindra College students from Venezuela, Cambodia, Poland and Canada/Netherlands.
Our stay in Kathmandu is restorative.
After four days sleepless in Bangalore I sleep for a solid eleven
hours and begin anew, ready now for the adventure that lies ahead:
the Annapurna Circuit: _____km of trekking that will take us across
one of the world's highest mountain ranges, climbing some _____
meters in altitude to the infamous Thorung La Pass, at 5,416m: ___ days. Enlivened with push ups and crunches in the wonderfully crisp
air, we set out onto the streets of Kathmandu to explore. At Shona's
Alpine, a family run shop that specializes in particularly well made
gear, I drop skrill on a new duck down jacket and a goose down, extra
long sleeping bag: the likes of which would cost an arm and a leg in
Canada, and here amount to some 200 CAD. Then I allow myself to drift
from the group and get lost in the stunning array of faces, smells,
streets, impossibly small shops that is Kathman, until I am several
neighbourhoods away, strolling through swarms of giggling school children breaking from
class, playing hacky-sack with bunched up wires, while I catch glimpses
between rickety alleyways of the valley that is home to this city of
eclectics. A setting sun and a strong breeze cut through the dust
that otherwise sits at nose level. Dazzling gold and fresh air come
in gusts, reminding me of the nearby mountains we will soon discover.
I make my way back as it turns to dusk,
asking and eating my way along streets cluttered with intricately
carved wooden balconies that are a living relic of –to me—medieval
streets. All back together at Yala Peak by 18.00, we set a 19.00
dinner date. In the hour between, I strike back out in my new jacket
to find some Tongba—hot Nepali beer. I find the place I've been
told to go, K2, named after the mountain, and join two Nepali lawyers
who teach me how to drink the stuff—served in huge cuts of bamboo
that serve as mugs, filled to the brim with fermented barley grains
and topped up by a thermos of boiling water, Argentinian mate style to produce a hearty,
head twisting insta-beer. We dip our heads into the rising steam and
drink deep—three fills is the best, they teach me. They also teach
me a fistful of Nepali—enough to compliment the food and initiate flirtatious conversation.
I meet the group back at the hotel and we
set out for dinner, joined now by Ramesh—our guide-come-porter who
has worked with Arvin for three years now on treks, and who will be our guide on this trek, as well as another
Nepali man who has helped us in getting our trekking permits. We
cross town to a spot that Marija has scouted out online: “Places”.
We climb a creatively painted stairwell and suddenly find ourselves
in a world apart form the city—and country—outside. Black painted
walls with wild, Gordon Auld like art; foreigners on smartphones
sitting on cushions at low down tables; a high-priced but totally
on-spot vegan menu; and the freshest house-chill-step beats of summer
2014 in North America. For one evening, the eve of our departure into
the mountains, we indulge.
Dec 16th, 2014
In moments of stillness, whether away
from the group or while the bus/jeep stops for gas, I pull out a
small brown booklet, decorated with hand-drawn sunflowers and
dragonflies: “21 Days of Gratitude”. A gift from a dreamy young
woman I met at the Conclave in Bangalore, who lives in Pune and has
the depth of wells in dark, distant eyes. I tell her when we
part to let me know if she has any friends half as lovely as her, or,
alternatively, if she ever has any trouble with her boy—a Bollywood
director living in Mumbai. As we set off into this trek, I wonder if
my mind will remain fixated on all that is feminine or if, with the
mindfulness that such landscapes as this require, my mind will relax
and release, and realize that there is peace to be had even for an
irrevocably single young man on the road. I suppose only the passing
of time and waxing moon will tell.
Day I: Dec 18th, 2014: Besi-Sahar --> Siri Chow
And indeed it passes. Today we begin
trekking. It feels wonderful to use our legs after so many hours
being slowly mashed together on the slow-motion roller coaster ride
that is The Jeep: pure muscle manifest in an automobile. After hours
of terrifying corkscrewing along sheer drops and impossible sections
of loose-boulders-for-road, we dismount and hike, into snow... only
to hear that a few hours later the jeep's breaks fail and the driver
and Ramesh nearly go off the road, saved only by Ramesh running out
of the still-moving vehicle and putting rocks in front of the tires.
We hear of this gathered together, at day's end, sitting post-dinner around a huge metal bin of coals—an indoor heater that is
less explosive than the propane tanks often used in these parts.
|
Growing white. |
Day II: Dec 19th, 2014: Siri Chow --> Chame -->
Upper Pisang
Today we walked entirely from Autumn to
Winter. It is such a magical thing, to walk from season to season;
from soft gold light, a bed of pine needles and smells that bring me
back to October in Ontario; to a trail, hard-packed with snow,
passing through shoots of blue ice and a different smell altogether, one that
brings with it memories of winters past: a crispness that wakes one
up like nothing else. The snow, at first scattered in pockets on the
sides of the trail, soon becomes a white backdrop and we follow the
footprints of birds, beasts and other people, who we glimpse through the
woods, gathering firewood in anticipation of a fast approaching, long, cold
winter. These women and children smile and return our namastes, hands
together, one palm open, the other holding a sickled blade for chopping wood.
As we hike, brown hillsides give way to
steep white slopes and I feel my feet itching for a pair of skis. Our path follows the Morshandi River, as it snakes its way through
the Manang Valley, feeding off the snow melts of the surrounding
mountains—and an esteemed cluster of snow-covered faces they are:
Langjum Himal, Annapurna II, III and IV, Gangapurna and finally,
Tilicho Peak (respectively from S-NW).
|
The Annapurnas |
Every time we stop to break,
we have come visibly deeper into this range of mountains, some of
which, such as Annapurna II that dominates the sky, remain unclimbed.
Others have a 40% death rate for past attempts.
With spurts of mild
nausea and headache scattered amongst the group, we gradually
acclimatize. Arvin, having spent enough time at high altitude, is
fine. Somehow, inexplicably, so too am I, perhaps thanks to my
aggressive hydrating and daily, deep breathing yoga which not only
keeps my body limber, but embodies the mountain-breath that Arvin
teaches us: forceful exhales, clearing the lungs of the residual air
that settles in the bottom, and deep inhales. If not audible to one's
neighbour, you aren't breathing hard enough. Some porters achieve this
by leaning vigorously over their ice-axes, physically ejecting the
air, so as to allow two full lungs of oxygen to rejuvenate the body.
It works powerfully, clearing one's head and providing a surplus of
oxygen to the muscles and brain, enabling one to trek on seemingly indefinitely.
But I wont fully appreciate the benefits of this
mountain breath until a day later, when it will power me through a
300m climb breaking trail through untrod snow, racing to beat the
cold that comes with the quick mountain sunset, speeded by the walls
of rock and ice that reduce the horizons to a stone's throw
distance.
|
Prayer Wheels - Despite cold hands, we pass on the left and spin these hand beaten wheels spinning, in doing so joining the age old practice of keeping the wheel of the Dharma turning. |
Day IV: Upper Pisang --> Ghyaru
We are now coming deep into the mountain range. Setting out from Upper Pisang, our
speed is slowed by a collective need to stop, and look. Even ever-eager Arvin's
steps are punctuated as we take in the other worldly views around us.
We descend close to a tributary of the Morshandi River, and single file,
cross over a hanging wire-bridge, suspended across some eighty meters of sky.
Bringing up the rear, I walk this sky-line alone, stopping halfway
across.
A gentle wind sweeps down the gulley
over which I am suspended. The prayer flags, some rich in colour,
others made a common white by the passage of many years, are
suspended in ethereal motion: prayers kept alive by the wind off the
hills, spilling their blessings in all directions. Beneath me,
crystaline-blue water gushes bellow ice, to meet the river below.
Ahead, seventeen year olds from around the world, some of whom have
never seen snow until now, trek on into the white.
In sudden
stillness, I breathe.
|
Sky-bridge. Bridging one realm with another. |
That night, we arrive to a lodge run by
family of Ramesh. They make us welcome with a roaring fire and lovely
food. I go exploring. In this place, deeply spiritual in its rawness, I feel at once close to and at once thousands of miles away from my home in Easter Turtle Island, and the community that, led by Emmett Peters, Mi'kmaq elder, comes together once a week to sweat, to smudge to breathe. I wander away from the students as they make home for the night. I miss the cedar smoke, the old hands performing older ritual over burning sage. As if memory has come to life, I suddenly smell a familiar smell, and follow my nose around a corner of the lodge only to come across a cedar smudge puja being carried out for two local elders who passed away the
day before. I am invited to join. Not knowing the local custom, I do what comes naturally. I kneel down, bend low over the burning cedar boughs and let the smoke curl up through my face, my hair, my open hands. I smile my thanks to the wrinkled faces around me, bringing my hands together in the universal symbol of thanks.
All my relations.
Day V: Ghyaru, December 21st,
2014
While each day we rise and fall in
altitude, gradually acclimatizing, this day's trek brings us some
300m higher than we've yet been. We stop amidst pine and cedar trees
to snack, drink and listen to Zeena sing songs she learnt as a young
girl in an Indian Sacred Heart school. The familiar Christian tunes
bring a smile to my face, as well as to Sara's: a young Venezuelan
woman with a sense of compassion and a work ethic that would put most
Protestants to shame.
Coming down from a steep ascent, I stop
to chat with a solitary hiker, coming the other way: our projected
route. With a bad knee and after multiple days of breaking trail
through knee-deep snow, he left his friends, turned back and made for home.
Pierrot, a Norman and the essence of the French Man, is overjoyed to
speak his mothertongue and we are soon hugging between Norman slang.
His home is some 50km from Evreux, where I spent three months when I
was fifteen years old. We exchange simple gifts from our packs and
part ways with a quick hug, good wishes and smiles. Little do we know we will meet on the streets of Pokhara a fortnight hence.
Our destination for today is Arvin's
favourite spot on the entire trek: Ghyaru, an ancient mountain village set
high on the hills, facing Annapurna II straight on. As we appraoch
the cluster of houses, I foresake my instinctive position at the back
of the group and make my way to the front, arriving with Ramesh
before the rest of the pack.
The buildings here are stunning. Unlike
the unfortunate pink and blue painted guest houses that characterize
most of the circuit—a local trick to attract foreigners perhaps—these buildings are almost invisible against the rocks from which they are
build. If the people of Tolkein's Rohan were to flee to a hidden
mountain abode, this would be it. The entire place speaks of another
time, before the advent of roads, the arrival of Europeans and much
less a culture of pleasure-trekking. This is a place of hardy survival, simple
means and a precarious marriage to the barren mountains that cut
Ghyaru off from the rest of the world.
I meet our host for the night: Raju. A
man apart from other Nepali mountain dwellers, he has dreads that
fall below his nipples, a wily smile and spot on english that he has
learnt from years of watching what films and shows make it to his mountain television set.
|
Raju: Mountain Sage of Ghyaru |
Tucked away in the dark, smoky kitchen,
I share a quiet moment with Raju, as he explains to me some of the
history of Nepal, united from a cluster of kingdoms into a single
nation by a royal man from Jaipur, Rajasthan, some two hundred years ago. The recentness with which this place has been exposed to the modern, western world is stunning and all too tangible. Especially here in Ghyaru.
Meanwhile, the rest of the gang slowly arrives.
I put on my sunnies and step
outside into a
golden world of snow capped summits receding in
endless chains
and a universe that makes me reconsider my own
existence in this world.
I am now cooled down from my hiking, and at risk of loosing precious body heat. In perfect timing, I slurp down a
hearty bowl of noodles that Raju has whipped up for me and, looking around, breathing deep the cool air, I feel myself finally here.
It has been a long day, and nor is it
over. After settling in those of us who have not fallen ill with
altitude sickness set out against the setting sun, our packs left
behind, on a trek that will bring us another 300m up to a stupa
nestled higher still on the mountainside above Ghyaru itself. With more energy than the students, I lead the way and break trail; this path has not been walked since the last
snowfall(s). After a strong initial ascent we find ourselves in Old Ghyaru: a now abandoned
cluster of even simpler stone buildings that tell a story of older
times, before trekking brought the wealth of foreigners to these
parts. The homes are single rooms, six foot tall at most. Here is one
so well preserved we slow as we pass its entrance. I utter a quiet
Namaste, half expecting to
hear a response: a sun-leathered face and ashen hands, clothed in the
rough yak-wool that has kept people alive here for centuries.
But
there is nothing, no one.
And the rest of the buildings are only half
in tact: what was once a kitchen, now open to the sky, shows us the
shelves that once held spices, yak oil and barley flour. Stories from
the past told eerily through a windswept present, of a people who
left for more a forgiving living, hundreds of meters below.
The trail is hidden
beneath the snow, which between the stone walls of this once-village
accumulates into three foot troughs. Half the group turns back, boots
full of snow and unable to continue against the strain of the
altitude. We see them safely down the path we came up, and then Arvin's
enthusiastic resolve pushes the rest of us onwards, and upwards. He
is sure the stupa is near and we have twenty minutes before our
decided turn around time. With a fast setting sun and December cold
quick on its heels this is no place to tempt fate. We push Thule and
Dang hard—the only students still with us—carefully balancing
philosophies of Challenge by Choice with the decidedly Kurt Hanian
tough love that Arvin so naturally embodies. And soon enough we hear Arvin, who
is scouting up ahead, hoot and holler. With the last rays of sun
peaking over the slopes of Gangapurna, he has spotted the stupa.
With a final heave
of mountain breathing, we make it to the great white and gold
monument and the wild web of prayer flags that mark its holiness.
Looking out some 4,200m up, our jaws drop, and we fall silent. In this
stillness, hearts beating hard, all there is is sky and mountain.
|
In the Heart of the Upper Pisang Stupa, Buddha Eyes look out over the land. The quiet guardian of a valley lost in time. |
The following day,
we hike back up to the same Stupa. This time, everyone who sets out
makes it—Ula pushes through walls and Dang has officially mastered
the mountain breath, marching ahead: a new man. The change can be
seen on his face. I reflect, it is this sort of transformation—and
seeing my own leadership style evolve—that makes me wonder how adventures such as this can shape a person in their forming.
I quietly
realize: I feel myself growing more into the man I aspire to be.
Day VI: December
22nd,
2014. Ghyaru --> Manang.
The following day we depart from Ghyaru, with warm farewells to our kind host Raju, and make for the next set of mountains. After a quick hike, we reach
Manang. Manang is the midway point in this half of the circuit and the last outpost of any vaguely city-esque before the final three-day ascent to Thorun La Pass. A small outpost of all things modern and city in this
mountain wilderness, this place is full of the stimuli that feed the
Other Wolf.
|
A story of two wolves: told to me just before setting out on this trek
and something that returns to me all the while trekking. |
There is no THING i
can get,
no Adventure to go
on,
nor any Way to be,
that will provide
an easy way out of the interminable cycle.
So what to do?
Feed both wolves?
Live in denial of one?
Find ongoing
sustenance for the other?
The Life I am Living:
I am
living in Pune, but not working at MUWCI. On a forray into the
country, I meet a rasta man. He lives alone in a house in the woods.
And makes music. Soul music. He is happy. He reminds me that there
are many ways to live one's life; to serve the world. Follow your
passions. Live simply, directly in touch with the Spirit that moves
you, that feeds you. It is a story of a lifestyle outside of the
norm, the safe, the easily understood. And a refreshing reminder of
what I set out to do upon leaving Halifax, seven months ago. How am I
living my life? For whom?
I am preparing to leave, moving away
from Pune. I plan a small, humble gathering in my bedroom. Its a
Sunday evening. People gather, small in numbers and lovely, in the
low lit, sparsely decorated room. But soon I am telling tales of Dub
Kartel—the Hali-famous band I left back in Canada. A boy from that
world joins in on my reminiscing and calls up the rest of the East
Coast b'ys and gals. The quality disappears and the
quantity increases. Now I am downtown, in some big city in India, in
an exclusive party at a fancy hotel. I am indulging in the elitism of
having powerful associations through Mahindra College. I meet women
and work for their attention, their affection. I am in no way
interested in them. I feel cheap.
Day VIII: December 24th, 2015
Christmas eve: Thorung Phedi, Yakarka
For hours and days we trek, each sunset
finding us deeper in the hills: the old, quiet mountains that are the
horizons of this land and for now, our lives. And on this day, this
Christmas Eve, we come to a place with warmth and colour. Bright
tablecloths spread over long tables, endless portions of Dal Bhat
and a dusty old, nearly forgotten guitar. Thule plays and sings and an entire
world appears, just as the last rays of the sun disappear from the
surrounding cliffs.
We live in a world of rock and snow.
One is falling in love; another trying to find home; another
contemplating a life of service; another growing into a man to make
his mother proud. Hundreds, thousands of miles from home, we come
together on the eve of Christmas to make a space that feels just like
it.
After setting up our space for our
Christmas eve celebrations, before inviting everyone in, I sneak away
from the group, steal into the frigid night air—thin and clear
above 3000m—and walk outside of the walls of the village of
Yakarka. I sit, inches from the snow and lean against the stone wall,
face to the wind.
It is cold, and keeping one's heat is important. But some things are more important still.
Here I take a moment and send my thoughts some
12,000km West of here, to where my family is gathered together for Christmas
in Toronto. Its morning time there. Lake Ontario is slowly freezing.
Tonight, Mum and Dad will lead their church services after a few
glasses of champagne, rosy cheeked and heart warmed, two of their
three children at home. Tom and Kate will go into the basement and go
through our boxes of childhood memorabilia: a tradition of ours on
Christmas eve. They will all go to bed in warm beds, with the dogs happily dosing below. Maybe, as they head to bed, they'll wonder: where is Ben right now?
And then I return to this place: high in these
mountains, mere feet from the stars, about to make the most of a Christmas away from home—the first for many of these students and
for me as well.
Back in the dining room, Arvin, Marija
and I pull out all the stops. Snickers rolls for all, triple servings
of dinner and three heaters keep us warm as we sing carols and share
Christmas stories and traditions from our homes. Wrapped in blankets
and down jackets, bare flames warming us from below the table, we
indulge in our little bubble of heat and community.
|
In the heart of the mountain cold, a circle of warmth over Christmas Eve dinner. |
Day IX: High
Camp, December 25th, 2015
The next morning, Christmas morning, we
mark the end of an arduous three day approach and reach High Camp.
All the luxuries of the previous night gone, this place makes little
facade of its true nature: a final place to rest before the mountain
pass: Thorung La.
After a simple dinner of Tibetan bread and
daal, fourteen people shiver around a small, smoky fire: Australian
trekkers, Brits, our MUWCI group and Nepali guides. We are all doing
the same thing. Planning for the following morning. Due to my
Wilderness First Responder training I will supervise one group, led
by Ramesh, and as Arvin knows the way while I don't it is logical for
me to go with the early group, departing at 04.00(am), while Arvin
and Marija follow a few hours later with the faster hikers. We go to bed still
shivering—our coldest night yet at 4850m. Even tato pani, boiling
water, at two hundred Nepali rupees (2.50CAD) a bottle freezes quickly at this
altitude. Cozied into my down bag I ask my roommates, Dang and Ula, the time.
Not yet 19.00. 18.50 to be exact. Perfect. Soon, I am asleep.
... Until approximately midnight. The rest
of the night is more or less sleepless. Between the billiard games
played by the mice in the walls, I lie imagining what lies ahead with
a mix of excitement and dread, fairly waiting for Ula's alarm to
sound and with it the summons to the most daunting walk I have ever
contemplated, much less executed. Thorung La Pass is the highest point
in the Annapurna Circuit and reaching 5416m, it takes the trekker
onto a plateau from which many have not returned. Either disorientated
by the endless hills, exhausted by the climb and altitude, caught in
bad weather or a combination of all of these, many trekkers have
simply shed their packs and sat down: the last decision they would
ever make. Others have been caught in landslides on the far side of
the pass, with civilization in sight. Only a few months ago dozens perished in such a slide,
their bodies still lost in the rubble. For better or for worse, my thoughts are cut short
by a lovely, familiar sound from a different place and time: a Yann Tiersen song from the soundtrack of Amelie.
Comfort in a dark
hour. Ten points to Ula. It is, of course, her alarm and thus time to move.
The stars are our sole source of light as
we set out. I am feeling slightly nauseous and headachy: along with
my sleepless night, these are symptoms of the altitude. We eat a
quiet breakfast and fill our bodies with warm water, joined by
another dozen or so trekkers from different groups. We all set out
together, led by our respective porters, away from the camp and up a
nearby ridge. Underfoot everything is snow and ice.
At Manang, on a
whim, Arvin bought a handful of metal cramp-ons: enough for all the
students and Zeena. Arvin, MJ and I abstained, confident in our
ability to grip the snow we had been treading until then. Although I
tread carefully, I slip more than once and wish I had been less sure
of my sure-footedness. It is pitch black, save the lights of our
headlamps that mark our slow-moving caravan, snaking single file into
the night. The usual conversation is silenced by a collective
understanding. This is no fool's game, and every step counts. We cut
across a steep slope, steep enough to reach one's arm out and touch
the ground to one's left without difficulty. To the right, the world disappears into
all consuming black, perhaps a gradual slope to flat ground, perhaps a
sheer drop. Its impossible to say. I think now of what my family must
be up to.
They are sitting around an
electric fireplace at home, heating turned up, drinking wine and asking
themselves, Where is Ben right now?
And then I see and feel what lies before me through their eyes. A lunar
landscape, a strong, cold wind and the piercing points of light in
the nearby sky that are the stars, not yet touched by the light of
pre-dawn. We walk, always keeping within arm's reach of each other, just in case,
each treading exactly in the others' footsteps, perfect steps, the path not wide
enough to allow for improvisation. Perfect steps.
And then I slip.
Suddenly
my arms are where my feet were, crossed over, grasping at the ice and
snow that is the ledge we walk along, while my feet try to puncture
the slope below me to self-arrest and prevent my sliding, to no avail. I feel myself
slowly sliding down, my arms inevitably straightening as I move inch
by inch off the ledge. I know that there is nothing I can do to
prevent this gradual descent until I loose contact with the ledge
entirely. Something kicks in and I straighten my arms, holding out my
gloved hands to either side, releasing my last purchase on the flat
path as my chest slides ever more downwards on the sheer snow and ice below
me. Its not a thought-out act, but a desperate act of instinct. And I feel my arms being grabbed, my body moving back up. I dig
my toes in and, pushing and being pulled, I'm back on the path, on my feet. I look
to see who grabbed me. In front of me, Deu, the porter of another
group: a quiet man with a kind smile who we have crossed paths with a few times now,
and a seasoned guide in these mountains. Behind me, Dang, the
first-year student from Cambodia. I thank them with my eyes and we continue on
into the night without a word nor a moment's wait.
Gradually,
the stars slip away into the coming dawn, the cold air warms ever so
slightly and we leave the sheer-slope path behind, surrounded now by
hills that gradually climb their way to the pass itself: ever elusive
until you're right on top of it. I try a radio check with Arvin's
group. They ought to have set out by now. Silence on the other end.
With the surrounding hills there is no chance of connection. The sun finally
makes its way over the wall of rock that surrounds us and Ula, who has been quiet until now, focused on the ascent, begins her usual, merry chatter, stopping to take photos until our group is
left far behind the other trekkers. I stay close behind her, urging
her on with disciplined mountain breathing and occasional loving prods. We are all feeling the
altitude and the air holds little oxygen for our starved limbs.
My
toes are wet from my thawing insoles, but only when Dang turns to me
to complain of cold
toes and I see an icicle descending from his
nose, do I call a stop to double up with dry socks.
Ula unpacks the
contents of her bag, placing her sleeping bag on the hard crust of snow. Halfway
through changing my socks—a procedure one does not want to draw out
in such frigidity—I watch helplessly as the bag begins to slowly
roll downhill. Good, I think, with a wry sense of satisfaction,
pleased at this learning moment. Ula will have to run after it for a
moment and never again will she make this mistake. My smile
disappears when Ula fails to catch it and the rolling bag picks up
speed. By the time I'm up on my feet, boots back on and one sock left
behind in the snow, the bag shoots over the edge of the path and
disappears down a ridge, barrelling down some forty meters into
a bowl of powder between two hills. I turn and tell Ula and Dang to keep moving—at our slow pace we cannot afford to loose any more time in
this exposed place. Then taking note of the lay of the slope and
where the rocks are, I lay down on my back and push off. The crust
takes my weight and with my slick jacket its a fast ride. I shoot down
thirty meters in six seconds and roll out of it just in time to avoid the rocks.
Wading into the powder, I grab the sleeping bag, turn and crunch my
way through thigh-high snow, back the way I came. By the time I reach
my pack and socks, I'm thoroughly warmed up, and despite the worrying
loss of precious energy spent on the retrieval mission, quite
chuffed with myself.
Ramesh and Zeena
are off ahead, out of line of sight. Dang, Ula and I continue,
continuously meeting the endless lines of white that refuse to reveal
the summit, until finally a dash of colour. Prayer flags. Across the
Himalaya, these merry things are a sign of arrival or at least of
place. And sure enough as we crest the hill we see the Pass: a stupa
enveloped in prayer flags, an abandoned hut next to it and Ramesh in
his usual sweater and down vest—not once on this trip has he donned
anything less or anything more—merrily clapping away, celebrating
our arrival. Zeena is laying on a mat he has set out for her. A well
earned rest. We stop and capture the moment together.
I have been doing
radio checks all this time with still no response. Now I hear my
radio sound, and Arvin's voice, but when I reply there is nothing.
Nor can I make out what he has said. Thinking back to the perilous
first section of the ascent, I worry that they have not yet caught up
with us. Leaving my pack at the pass, I pack my radio, whistle,
compass and a protein bar and set off back the way we came.
Travelling light and shortcutting across ridges and valleys I cover
ground fast and soon come across other trekkers. They say they have
seen Arvin and the gang, not far behind. At the next ridge I spot
them and let out a loud, relieved, Kweeeeeeyoooo! Those who have the energy wave up at me. I run-slide down to meet them, and
taking the pack of an altitude-sick MJ, walk with them to the pass,
where we have a proper celebration with the last of the Christmas
goodies—its being Christmas Day after all!--and taking many silly
photos. I pull a few sticks of the loveliest incense from my pack
and, digging though the snow to find the heart of the stupa, stick
them in as an offering and set them alight. The smell, combined with
the view, is heavenly. All accounted for, I relax now and nibble away
at chocolates and nuts with the rest.
Before loosing too much heat, we begin the long trek down: a solid five hours of descent across
slopes of shale, snow and ice: the remnants of the landslide of three
months ago that claimed the lives of so many people. Only later will
we learn that one group's porter urged them on, the fear of god in
him, when a dog that had been following their group for days
unearthed from the rubble a torn pair of jeans. The group is
exhausted, especially Sara and Andres whose Argentinian upbringing did not equip them with the ski-walking skills that make such slippery inclines easier going. We decide I should go ahead
to catch up with the others and let them know everyone is OK. To
avoid travelling alone I pick a student to come with me, and so Thule
and I—the two Canadians of the bunch—set out ahead at a slipping,
sliding, halting jog. We come down from the scree hillside and hit
the road to Muktinath. Gradually we leave the grey and white of the Pass behind us and find ourselves looking down into a valley of
browns, reds and even patches of green. Just in time for sunset, we have
reached Muktinath.
This place is one of the Himalaya's holy
pilgrimage sites, home to one of only a few temples that is both
Buddhist and Hindu, and has been here for some eight hundred years.
Muktinath itself is the first settlement North of Thorung Pass and
the doorway to the Mustang Kingdom that reaches across this valley—a
stunning high altitude desert of barren hills and rust coloured
rock—to the distant mountains. From there it is a four mile trek to
another, almost forgotten world high up in the mountains: Tibet.
|
The Road to Jomsom. |
|
The Mustang Kingdom, largely untouched by the last centuries... |
To be continued....
Photo credit to: Ula, MJ, Arvin and the Internets.