For 10 days I have been blissfully removed from the realm of gmail and the blogosphere, trekking through a wild and unforgiving land where accomplishment is measured in footsteps and rewarded with a frigid shower, a Spartan room with a sweeping Himalayan view, and a rousing game of gin rummy with newfound fellow wanderers. To try to encapsulate this rich, life-altering experience in a few hundred words on a blog seems futile, like trying to capture the view from the summit of Long’s Peak with a disposable point and shoot camera. But I can at least put forth a few glimmers, pulled from a journal I have kept religiously despite the sore-feet and utter fatigue that has inevitably overtaken me by 9 each night of our trek.
Here goes:
Nov. 8. Day one of the trek.
I’m lying in my bed at the New Annapurna Lodge in Kagbeni, a gentle buzz from an Everest beer and a Mars bar making this surreal day complete. We rose at 6 this morning in the bustling lakeside berg of Pochara, to be met by a shockingly diminutive guide and two even smaller porters. “My God. They are so tiny,” whispered my friend Kim. We promptly returned to our room and, guilt-ridden, emptied one third of the contents of our backpacks into a locker – a move we would later learn was totally unnecessary. Yes, these girls were about the size of my 10 year old, well under 90 pounds each and easily a foot shorter than my 5.7 frame. But they are unfathomably tough. And to them, hauling our packs through the windswept moonscape of Nepal’s Mustang valley is a welcome alternative to the village life from which they have come – one where arranged pre-pubescent marriages, child labor, and oppressive patriarchy are the norm.
As proud employees of Three Sisters Trekking (the one and only women owned and operated guide service in Nepal) they have a chance at something better. “We have hope,” our guide, Renuka, told me, as the five of us boarded a seemingly ancient 16-seat Yetti Air plane for our brief, turbulent flight to Jomsom.
Our four-hour hike from Jomsom to Kagbeni followed the wide, partly dry river bed of the upper Kali Gandaki River, the icy crown of Nilgiri rising above the arid, lifeless foothills and the blue-green waters snaking unpredictably in the valley below. For miles, the five of us walked without passing another soul, save a Nepalese shepherd and his flock. The mountains around us were so huge. We were so small. It felt like walking on the moon.
We had been warned that the wind would be ferocious through this stretch, but instead, it was dead calm. “You are lucky,” Renuka told me as we crossed the infamous valley below Kagbeni. She would tell me this many times on this trip.
Hours later, after we checked into our tidy rooms with pine furniture and sweeping views, we sat in the warm dining room and watched the wind pick up, shaking the windows and swallowing the once still valley below in a cloud of what we would soon come to know as “Nepali powder.”
Before the day was done, we paid a visit to a Tibetan monastery, stumbling by chance upon a memorial service in progress. Lucky again. Forty nine days earlier a villager had died, and this solemn event was the seventh and final weekly tribute to be paid, according to custom. We were all surprised when they invited us in. I removed my shoes, sat cross-legged on the floor, and listened, eyes closed tight, as eight monks with wind-weathered cheeks and long red robes read from ancient Tibetan texts in a rhythmic chant. Two lifted their long horns to their lips, filling the room with a rich harmonious tone that shook the floor. Symbols crashed. The chants grew louder, and before I knew it, I was overcome. Tears. So much beauty. This was going to be an amazing trek.
Here goes:
Nov. 8. Day one of the trek.
I’m lying in my bed at the New Annapurna Lodge in Kagbeni, a gentle buzz from an Everest beer and a Mars bar making this surreal day complete. We rose at 6 this morning in the bustling lakeside berg of Pochara, to be met by a shockingly diminutive guide and two even smaller porters. “My God. They are so tiny,” whispered my friend Kim. We promptly returned to our room and, guilt-ridden, emptied one third of the contents of our backpacks into a locker – a move we would later learn was totally unnecessary. Yes, these girls were about the size of my 10 year old, well under 90 pounds each and easily a foot shorter than my 5.7 frame. But they are unfathomably tough. And to them, hauling our packs through the windswept moonscape of Nepal’s Mustang valley is a welcome alternative to the village life from which they have come – one where arranged pre-pubescent marriages, child labor, and oppressive patriarchy are the norm.
As proud employees of Three Sisters Trekking (the one and only women owned and operated guide service in Nepal) they have a chance at something better. “We have hope,” our guide, Renuka, told me, as the five of us boarded a seemingly ancient 16-seat Yetti Air plane for our brief, turbulent flight to Jomsom.
Our four-hour hike from Jomsom to Kagbeni followed the wide, partly dry river bed of the upper Kali Gandaki River, the icy crown of Nilgiri rising above the arid, lifeless foothills and the blue-green waters snaking unpredictably in the valley below. For miles, the five of us walked without passing another soul, save a Nepalese shepherd and his flock. The mountains around us were so huge. We were so small. It felt like walking on the moon.
We had been warned that the wind would be ferocious through this stretch, but instead, it was dead calm. “You are lucky,” Renuka told me as we crossed the infamous valley below Kagbeni. She would tell me this many times on this trip.
Hours later, after we checked into our tidy rooms with pine furniture and sweeping views, we sat in the warm dining room and watched the wind pick up, shaking the windows and swallowing the once still valley below in a cloud of what we would soon come to know as “Nepali powder.”
Before the day was done, we paid a visit to a Tibetan monastery, stumbling by chance upon a memorial service in progress. Lucky again. Forty nine days earlier a villager had died, and this solemn event was the seventh and final weekly tribute to be paid, according to custom. We were all surprised when they invited us in. I removed my shoes, sat cross-legged on the floor, and listened, eyes closed tight, as eight monks with wind-weathered cheeks and long red robes read from ancient Tibetan texts in a rhythmic chant. Two lifted their long horns to their lips, filling the room with a rich harmonious tone that shook the floor. Symbols crashed. The chants grew louder, and before I knew it, I was overcome. Tears. So much beauty. This was going to be an amazing trek.
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