Walking Home

reveries of an amateur long-distance hiker

March 4

March 10th, 2016

March 4 Day 4 Upper Pisang to Ngawal

In the middle of the night I heard a roar. My first thought was thunder, but the sky was clear. It was an avalanche in the glacier bowl on Annapurna II. It faces Upper Pisang across the river valley and so is a natural amplifier. I rolled over and slept until 6:00 when the whole crew started stomping around. Plain wood floors and walls make for noisy neighbors. Frost was on the deck on the way to the dining area. A pot of black tea and some oatmeal started the day and soon I was making my way down the trail. A cold morning– and they will become increasingly cold. A little concerned that my foul weather gear won’t be enough, but I’ll just put on everything I have when crossing Thorung La. No road walking today as the path is high above the river and the road is on the other side. It is a day to get serious about acclimatization, so on the steep grades I do a lot of short rest stops to get breath. Each day’s distance will be quite short until I get over the pass. There is a lot of anxiety amongst the trekkers here about altitude edema– pretty much a constant in conversation. All I can do is to inventory my physical state constantly, rest a lot, and be willing to turn back if necessary. Although much of Nepal is Buddhist, the deeper into the mountains I go, the more mani walls, shrines, stupas, and gompas I pass. Yesterday I saw trimmed ends of juniper drying on the hotel deck looking almost as if they were making wreaths. In the mornings they make a small fire on a pedestal, usually near a mani wall, with the smoky juniper twigs in order to wake up Buddha. Most of the morning was on a high path looking back at Annapurna II while looking toward Annapurna III. After crossing a long swinging bridge I began to make my way up a long incline, probably gaining about 400 meters of altitude in a short stretch. At about the third switchback I heard that same rumble and turned to see a wall of snow and ice crashing down the Annapurna glacier bowl. It turned into a cloud filling the whole area, then settled back down covering the rocks that had previously been exposed. The sun was shining brightly through it all– no words for that scene. Not long after I passed men driving two horses that were wearing brightly colored saddles, would love to have seen them riding across the countryside. The rest of the morning was a long climb involving a lot of stopping to breath. This is perhaps an obvious observation, but I understand better one of the reasons Buddhist meditation practices focus on the breath. Here where the religion began, focusing on your breathing is a away of life. Even the guides who walk these mountains constantly have to acclimatize. On the ascents, you can see their careful breathing patterns, something I’ve never been so aware of. Ngawal also is home to a large gompa though older than the one at Upper Pisang. The complex had several older buildings including one housing a large colorful prayer wheel, and a mani wall that had very old, cloth covered prayer wheels. You could see the handwritten script of the prayers on the tatters, beautiful. Later dined on yak Dal Bhat, then early to bed.

T. Hugh Crawford

March 3

March 10th, 2016

March 3 Day 3 Chame to Upper Pisang

There is a regular crew of trekkers on the circuit with many of the same target towns. Three young Spanish women who hike in tights, Jack from Taiwan, Marty from Los Angeles, three women from Australia who have hiked all over the world together, Patrice from Quebec, and Ville and Kristen–two fascinating PCT hikers, Ville is from Finland but they currently call Bend, Oregon home. Today and the next are planned short days to acclimatize, so I made the 13k to Upper Pisang by noon. A fair amount of elevation gain, but it was gradual and so an easy day. Tomorrow will be the same length but more elevation. A day of amazing views, making a slow sweep around the northern part of Annapurna II. At 7937m, it is not quite as tall as Annapurna, but a welcome sight across the trek. Much of the trail was on the road, though it did branch off up into a beautiful pine forest. The path was well-formed and the smell of sap was refreshing. This whole area is being logged off in small patches by hand. I walked through several abandoned logging camps with small huts and pit-saw platforms. At first I thought it was a base where they brought in a portable sawmill, but looking at the structure and at the saw marks on some leftover beams convinced me they were sawing out boards in the traditional way: a two-handled saw with a topsawyer guiding while the poor wretch beneath had to chuck the saw back up in a cloud of sawdust. I passed a number of foresters but heard no machinery, just men with axes and two-handled buck saws. Along the side of the trail were carefully stacked rough-sawn boards drying out. Later I passed a newly planted apple orchard with what looked to be a large processing house under construction, beautiful building. A couple of kilometers before the end the path passed through Dhukurpokhari, a pretty village, so I stopped for black tea. Learning to slow down and just let the day unfold. I was first to the Hill Top Guest House, but soon the place filled up with the crew, and we all had lunch out on a deck looking down at the village of Lower Pisang and up at Annapurna II which had the midday sun lighting up the glaciers, making them seemingly transparent in some places. Inside the guest house eating area there are the large color prints of family members tacked to the wall, but incongruously in their midst is a large poster of the boy band “One Direction.” I stole away from the crew and followed the winding paths up through the village. It is a very old town with no main street but instead winding paths between old but tall stone structures. The pedestrian traffic was more likely to be bovine than human. Eventually I got to the top and the probable reason for the village in the first place, the Pisang Gompa. They have just constructed a new Stupa with magnificent polished stone, and are building some other structures in the complex. Unfortunately the main monastery building was locked, so I sat in the sun on the large stone landing in front. Across the valley rose Annapurna II giving reason for it all. I sat for a long time, much with eyes closed emptying all concerns. Then for moments I would look at the massif in front of me. Crows were circling, floating on the thermals where I would expect hawks. Five defined peaks, each a different texture and all changing with the light. There were two razor-edged points to the left with shining columnar ice making reflective ripples, and just below the main peak were blue-green glaciers ready to disgorge blocks of ice in the early-spring, mid afternoon sun. To the right were other ridges, some with trees edging up to the ice and waterfalls that were actually ice falls. It was a place both peaceful and overwhelming–nothing else matters.

March 2

March 2nd, 2016

March 2 Tal to Chame

I swore after yesterday that I wouldn’t do long days– I have plenty of time for this trek, but I found myself today pushing it to get to Chame, which is supposed to be one of the best towns on the circuit. A lot of road walking, though the roads are a lot like paths in many places. Coming out of Tal I passed a man and his children with a yoke of little oxen plowing a field. Small children walked behind with Pringles cans full of seeds sprinkling away. Later walking through a village, there were some men framing up a building. They had chisels and were cutting mortise and tenon joints while another man was truing up the beam with a small hand adze. Just down the way, I watched two women spinning yarn. They had a big bag of wool (I think goat wool) and they had a spindle that looked like an elongated children’s top which they spun with the point in a china bowl. Their fingers worked fast and the yarn was beautiful. Beside them in large flat drying baskets were chilies. The road I am following runs along the river all the way to Manang, which is the largest town in the area. The only vehicles besides tractors that run on it are Mahindra quad cab pickups– they are diesel four wheel drive trucks strong enough to make it over the rocks and through the streams. One was called the Manang Express, which made me laugh since I can walk almost a fast as they can drive on these roads. I did stop and watch a road crew work, laying out what we would probably call a Roman road, with cut or broken stone laid in a rough cobble pattern. The hike up and over the ridge to Timang was steep with lots of steps, which in a little altitude really winds me. Had to stop a bit just to breath. Stopped for lunch in Timang at a pleasant outside restaurant, had a Gorkha beer (which will surely slow me down) and watched the clouds come in over the ridge. Now to the south and west I can see parts of the Annapurna massif. Walking around the mountains is a way of paying them respect (rather than the Western climb and conquer mentality). What I have seen so far deserves something more than the word respect conveys. The rest of the afternoon was just a long dusty road walk, and found the Moonlight hotel for a well-deserved rest.

March 1

March 2nd, 2016

March 1 first day of Annapurna Circuit

First days of a trek are always filled with possibility but also hesitation. I left well fortified as my pancake breakfast was mountainous, as was the rest of the day’s hike. It was curious to see many small sheds in the village which had fires inside but no chimney. They tilt up an edge of the steel roof, and the smoke escapes that way. Would not want to spend too much time in one of those. After warm goodbyes I left the village-near-the-bridge and headed up river. For the next few days, the path will follow a tumultuous river, crossing regularly on pendulous and not always trust-inspiring swinging bridges. Most on this part are steel and feel more secure than those on Helambu, but they are very long and high. When crossing one I noticed animal dung on the treadway, wondering how anyone could convince an animal to cross such a machine. Moments later, a man leading a string of pack burros walked by, answering my question. In the morning, when I was still in the lower part of the river valley, I walked through fields and villages. Even though the terraces are narrow, up here they use teams of cattle (not quite oxen) in yokes to pull simple wooden plows. I sat and watched as two teams broke a narrow field. Later, as I was walking up a narrow path through a small cluster of buildings (not quite a village) I passed a man cutting a mortise in the top of an oddly shaped timber. I assumed it was for a rafter tie as the angle was sharp. Later I met another man doing similar work and realized he was fashioning a plow. They chisel a groove in the blade section to affix a thin strip of steel which serves and the plow edge. They pick the material to make the plows from stumps. I saw a pile next to a shed that were possible candidates for plowdom, the rest were firewood. Trees here are the usual lower altitude mix, though there are many tall spindly ones looking very much like our tulip poplars, though they are covered with bright red tulip-like blossoms. As I recall, our tulip poplars are not real poplars but instead a species of magnolia. I’d guess these red tulip trees are close relatives. As the day wore on, the river valley narrowed and the path got steep. Passing through one village on a narrow part of the path I saw two women working with large flat baskets and a heavy brass mortar and pestle. They were grinding and drying turmeric root. The baskets had the most beautiful yellow power. At a rest stop I met trekkers from Finland, South Africa, and Oregon. I guess we will cross paths in the days to come– nice folks– though I have much more time to make the circuit and will probably take it (you can live well on 15$ per day while trekking here) and I really have so much to learn from this, definitely not in a hurry. Near the end of the day, coming up over a rise in the late afternoon, I could see a wide bend of the river making a broad sand beach, and just up river, brightly colored, was Tal, the day’s end point. Walking down Main Street I was surprised at how many hotels there were which claimed lots of amenities, including hot showers and wifi. This is definitely not like the Helambu. I checked into the Mona Lisa hotel, cleaned up and had the signature Tal dish which is a potato, bean, pumpkin, corn bread curry. Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. Great first day, though I am sore!

Feb 29 transportation day

March 2nd, 2016

Feb 29 a day of road transportation

Today was a day of transport. To begin the Annapurna circuit, I needed to get to a village just north of Besishahar. Everyone warned of the road to Pokhara from Kathmandu, with good reason. It is paved and two lanes, but just barely, and it winds through narrow mountain edges with an unbelievable amount of heavy traffic, everyone passing each other on sharp narrow turns. The road is dominated by huge Tata trucks with massive chrome fronts which are wonderfully decorated with paint, ribbons, images of shiva, nicknames, one even had the images of the starting lineup for Real Madrid. I opted to take a tour bus as they are larger, less crowded, and are reputed to have good maintenance– read: the brakes work. Definitely was not going to fly as the local airlines have had two major crashes in as many days. The Green Line is maybe the most expensive, but it left from a point just across from my hotel (saved taxi fare) and included lunch at a riverside resort which was pretty much the fanciest place I’ve been in since arriving. Still, the trip to Dumre (my transfer point) took six hours. My seat partner was a man from Spain on his way to work seasonal labor in New Zealand, and the guy behind me was from London on his way to start a new job in Hong Kong. Nice folks. Even though it was a highway, the bus did have to stop several times while people herded goats across. At one of those points, I could see a man slaughtering a goat on the side of the raid. I was the only one to get off in Dumre where I was taken in hand by Chris, one of those people who offer to help out and generally at some point get a decent tip. We sat in a cool restaurant for the hour between buses, me drinking a beer and he telling stories of being a guide on the circuit. Out the window in the back I could see people doing their laundry in the river. Particularly interesting was a couple– she worked on the clothes while he washed two large incredibly beautiful wool patterned rugs. One was a blue I’d never really seen, which he scrubbed carefully in the current of the river. The minibus I got from Dumre to Besishahar was a standard 15 passenger van with 26 people (including baggage) in it. The road was still paved, but was increasingly narrow which did nothing to dampen the driver’s enthusiasm for acceleration and horn blowing. Besishahar was the last large town, and I finally got the bus Nadi — a classic Nepal bus with loud music, lots of tassels, and people crammed in every possible spot. Lots of stuff ends up on the roof with the ticket taker climbing up while the bus is moving. We passed one bus that I thought had a person riding up there, but it was two goats. No idea how they got up there or why they stayed. The surface of the road gave out and the third bus did not go much faster than I can walk. Techincally that section was part of the circuit, but it is an industrial area where a large Chinese company is building a hydro electric plant. All the guides say not to walk it and I’m glad I took the bus to a point just about the project. A man on the bus recommended I stay in a guest house just north of Nadi at the foot of a huge steel swinging bridge. A really great guest house run by Hari who is studying Korean language. Sat by the river for a while, then had a beer and curry. As I ate I could see lights in some of the buildings with people gathered around, then someone began playing a flute that was so plaintive it was almost like listening bagpipes. Then someone played one of those small fiddle/guitars they have. The music echoed around while I finished dinner, getting me ready for a good night’s sleep.

Feb 25-27

February 27th, 2016

Feb 25 – 27

Daily life in Kathmandu: I have taken off my trekking shoes for a few days to take care of some trek planning, catch up on correspondence, and get some writing done. Daily life in Kathmandu is now an exercise in familiarity, in part because my habits are so regular: waking early, checking the news or sometimes even watching it, if the hotel electricity happens to be on (there is no clear pattern to the daily outages that I can discern, and the only Internet site that I have found which lists it is written in Nepali). Morning coffee and writing at the Himalaya Java–2$ omelette, 1$ coffee, take that Starbucks– followed by midday running errands, a quiet late afternoon and dinner, usually at the New Orleans cafe.

I am a familiar face in those haunts and so am greeted warmly. Also I’ve met a number of expats who follow a similar pattern– interesting folks all. It is a narrow form of living, but for now, comfortable and productive. Soon enough I’ll be back in the wilds of the Himalayas.

Feb 24

February 25th, 2016

Feb 24

Woke in my favorite hotel with no electricity which is of course a regular occurrence in Kathmandu–power is only on about half the time. That is as much as I am roughing it back here in the city after my warm-up trek in Helambu. Technological differences tend to be what we first notice when visiting other places. The deeper into the mountains, the fewer conveniences, the simpler the life. Many writers, including some I highly respect, will often describe this as stepping “back in time.” I understand what they mean. In isolated rural areas, the daily practices of the people living there are often quite similar to those of their ancestors. A farmer tilling narrow terraced fields with a short-handled heavy hoe is a scene that has been repeated for centuries if not millennia, so for visitors, it is of an antique simplicity. However the “back in time” attitude is the result of a parochial sense of modernity. Yes, without doubt, the people living in, say, Melamchigaon are not working in sanitized, hermetically-sealed, climate-controlled environments staring at computer screens all day, but they are living in the 21st century, surrounded by artifacts of that era including the ubiquitous steel and aluminum sheathing, cell phones, quallofil polyester jackets, airplanes and helicopters circling, soldiers patrolling with automatic weapons. While they may not be in a high-tech envelope, they, like the vast majority of the world’s population, are in the true or larger modern world. The place where they live and work is a hybrid of high tech and traditional practices that a narrow, hyper-modern view overlooks. What the “back in time” trope brings is a sense of distance from and a concomitant blindness to the hybrid nature of all our modernities. Silicon Valley daily life is also full of activities long practiced by humans but overlooked in pursuit of a digital totality. Ezra Pound’s plea to “make it new” starts with an “it” that is modernized, but the “it” and all its deep history is sedimented in that “new.” Stepping into Melamchigaon is not a temporal disjunction. It is spatial. It is stepping into a different modern world.

T. Hugh Crawford

Feb 23

February 25th, 2016

Feb 23

A restless night, punctuated by snuffling dogs, moaning cattle, and some early rising Nepalis. The hike out for this part of the Helambu trek is pretty much all road walking and it turns out Timbu is the first stop for buses heading to Melamchi and even on to Kathmandu. Hmmm, the adventure of a famous Nepali bus ride compared to a dusty 18 km road walk to Melamchi– easy decision. The man at the bus stop said the first one left at 5:30 am with the others starting at seven and running on the hour. He added that the 5:30 was a fast bus to Kathmandu. Although I’m in no great hurry to get back to the city, it seemed a good idea to catch a bus that wouldn’t take all day, so I set my tent alarm early, though the livestock served that purpose just as well. For a moment it was just like being back on a New Zealand trail, waking in my tent, efficiently packing up my gear, folding the tent, and setting out in the early morning light, but my walk was just up to the stop where a bus was parked. First to arrive, I walked around the bus and was startled by the voice of the driver sitting in the darkened vehicle. It operates with a team of three men who sleep on the bus. They take up the seats and make beds on the floor and in the driver’s area. I was early and disturbed their last moments of sleep, but they soon were bustling around putting things back in order, starting up the bus, collecting 280 NPR from me, then honking their horn loudly and repeatedly. Apparently the entire village is awakened every morning at 5:20 with the imminent departure horn. Soon we were on our way, the bus tossing and rocking through deep ruts, around huge boulders recently rolled into the road, and horn blaring more often than not. One of the team stationed himself at the side door which was held open by a u-clamp. They stopped wherever someone flagged them down, occasionally piling into the aisles huge bags of grain to be taken to Melamchi. Many of the early passengers were schoolchildren, so for a while it felt and sounded like a schoolbus. Given the circumstances of their homes, which often remain temporary steel shelters with the cooking and washing done outside, the students’ school clothes were crisp and clean as if straight from the dry cleaners. Soon the bus filled up so I had to sit with my pack on my lap as I’d didn’t want to risk putting it on the roof (which was managed by one of the team– they tended to rotate stations). Of course the seats are small and my shins banged hard against the one in front with every bump. The windshield was decorated with red tassels, and soon Nepali music blared loudly accompanied by the horn. We made stops that were barely stops– the bus would slow a bit, some hopped off, some on. The three drivers were particularly adept at snagging the rail while the bus was moving fast, like freight-hoppers nailing a drag. Down the river valley we went, bouncing on a deeply rutted dirt road. The first time we changed drivers I learned why it was the fast bus. They drove the same route as the others, only faster. The main driver would speed up, blast the horn, go into a controlled drift in the gravel, then accelerate on the short straights. As the morning wore on, the school children were replaced by older workers on their way into the valley and those like me going all the way to the city. I found myself sitting for most of the journey with a fascinating man who had been in Melamchi visiting his parents and was on his way back to his office in Kathmandu. An active leader in one of the major political parties, he also was active in helping the rural communities get back on their feet by building schools and other town structures.

We talked on across the landscape which, as we circled east of Kathmandu changed, flattening out geographically and clearly not as heavily affected by the quake. We passed many brickyards where I could see workers molding and stacking clay bricks and tiles, soon passing a valley with tall pot-bellied brick kiln chimneys smoking away, surrounded by bright red bricks. A lot of building needs to happen here. After a few hours, we turned onto a road paved by the Chinese government connecting Tibet with Kathmandu. In a short while the bus began to make a noise that sounded like a worn-out bearing. The driver turned into a lot next to a truck dealership, one of the three picked up some wrenches and in about twenty minutes switched out the universal joint on the drive shaft. Most of the passengers didn’t even get off the bus, and soon we were on our way. Arriving at the city, my new friend showed me where to find a taxi to get back to Thamel, and we parted reluctantly, such a kind man. With my backpack, dusty shoes, and five-day stench, I found an outside table at my favorite coffee shop, ordered lunch– a club sandwich, not Dal Bhat– and arranged lodging at my favorite hotel for the next week. Kathmandu feels more comfortable now, and all the folks at hotel smiled at my return, making me feel welcome. Had a good talk with former mountain guide who had not been in the Helambu region since the quake and had many questions I was happy to try to answer. Hot shower, great dinner at the New Orleans Cafe and of course early to bed in a place that did not feature cattle.

T. Hugh Crawford

Feb 22

February 24th, 2016

Feb 22

An early morning gong booming, the singing of prayers by my friend, and the crowing of roosters stirred me out of bed. Today’s goal was Kakani, which should have made for a short walk, though I was having trouble reconciling my GPS device with the published Helambu map. On the map, Kakani is a town with full amenities (school, monastery, and a guest house), but it does not even appear on my GPS, nor does the trail for this section. Not worried about getting the Helambu merit badge, I plotted a route to get me generally in the place I needed to be. The Helambu track is basically a hike up and down a river valley (the Melamchi River). Starting on the western side, it follows high ridges until Thadepati, then drops down to Melamchigaol which is at the headwaters, so today’s trek would be down the eastern side of the river valley. I lounged in my cot for a while before starting to pack and then was called to breakfast which definitely included “free range” eggs as they were from the yesterday’s rice-eating chicken. Couple that with a pancake covered with honey and two cups of black tea, and I was ready for the day. Not anticipating a long day’s walk, I roamed the village a bit, peering into the wreck of the monastery. One room not completely destroyed had a huge prayer wheel, still there but tilted and unspinnable.

There was a Buddhist monk in robes and some high tech running shoes- such is the modernity of Melanchigaon. After saying warm goodbyes to my hosts, I turned my head south. The descent out of the highlands was not easy. The path was clear, but the way was steep. Just below Tarkeghyang there were two routes south according to my map. I chose the one to the right hoping it would lead to Kakani. It was a well-formed road that was no longer used by vehicles because of rockslides. On the way out I stopped by a stream for water. Many of the people living here will make a small pool in a falling stream, four or five inches deep, and then punch holes in the base of a half-liter plastic soda bottle and attach a hose coupling to the top. Place it in the pool and run the hose to the house and, voila, instant plumbing. Taking care not to disturb anyone’s water supply, I filled my Nalgene and then steri-penned it, missing those days on the South Island of New Zealand where you could scoop a liter of icy water from a stream and drink it down without concern. On the road, I soon passed a very old, slow-moving man who was partially deaf. I startled him as I passed giving the traditional “namaste.” He then smiled and asked “where?” I replied “Timbu” as it was the primary place-name on both maps. He nodded, saying he was going there too. We walked together briefly, but clearly our paces did not align, so bidding him goodbye I went ahead. The roads have many switchbacks sometimes cut short by footpaths. Very soon after parting, I heard a sharp whistle, and the man stood there gesturing toward the footpath just in front of me instead of the road. I smiled, bowed, and thanked him as best I could from the distance. He saved me a kilometer or more, and it was a path well-worth walking, going through a series of recently cultivated terraced fields, including some full grown with winter wheat. Still, most of the day was a long road walk and the dust was inches deep. There were wide flat spots, but when slides occurred, it became steep and narrow, requiring serious concentration. I lost altitude all day, and one point found myself going down a steep switchback just behind some teenagers. There was a youth camp nearby and they were on their way to a ceremony dressed in their absolute best Nepali clothes but still goofing the way a group of teenagers does. As the day wore on, I considered going straight to Timbu which was clearly a decent sized village, but my map did not show lodging there. It did indicate a small trail heading up to Kakani from the road, so at a cluster of houses I asked about the town. According to my GPS I was only about 2 km from Timbu, but it was midday, plenty of time to find Kakani. Some men pointed toward a steep path which I followed for more than a half hour. Walking was difficult because they were preparing the fields and the dirt was soft. Halfway up were a number of women with short heavy hoes working their way through the narrow terraces. They waved, signaling I should continue climbing. Near the top, the path gave out, and I made my way to the edge of a set of freshly planted terraces. With some difficulty I climbed up (they are an unwieldy height) and found myself at the back side of a village. Walking around, the entrance to Kakani (or maybe Gangyul? It is unclear as the maps conflict) was a stupa and a school on a hill. A sign for a hotel and cold drinks greeted me, but walking up the path revealed only rubble. At a nearby house, a young mother said there were no guest houses in town, but she sold me a cold Mountain Dew. I’m fairly certain its been at least 45 years since having one of those. I shared a little with her young son who drank with a frowning seriousness, then set off for Timbu which now was over six km by the road. My choice was to go back the way I came, or hoof it hard down the road. Putting on my seven-league boots, I took off, descending rapidly. Down lower the plants became tropical, including what looked like banana trees. Just outside a house near town, an elderly woman walked out as I passed giving me a very loud and happy “namaste,” and then said “Timbu!” pointing down the slope. It seems the only words I share with the Nepalese are greetings and place names. Another kilometer brought Timbu with only one hotel that had no rooms available. They offered to let me sleep outside on a small patch of grass next to a pen with some large black Nepalese cows (they made a strange grunting sound all night).

After pitching my tent, I opted not to hang out with the cattle and instead returned to the hotel for drinks and dinner, starting with a large cold beer which just then was indescribably delicious. I sat in the setting sun watching a crew of men hand-hewing beams for floor joists. They only flattened two sides and didn’t worry if the log was crooked as long as the two flattened sides were in the same plane. It was fascinating work, reminding me of hewing beams with broad axes on the Thoreau House Project some years ago. The hotel had a large kitchen garden and the owners had many children. The older ones were harvesting large roots they called taro while the younger ones whooped, hollered, and fist bumped me while I tried to write. An uncle showed up with a freshly caught fish–looked like a Nepalese catfish–which he cleaned with a large cleaver sharpened on the concrete curb while, on the hill above, an old woman sat cross-legged winnowing grain with a large flat basket. There was too much to see. They offered fish for dinner, but the younger children were so excited about it, I had dal bhat instead (again). The sun set and I made my way to the barnyard, now joined by some stray dogs, and crawled into my tent content.

T. Hugh Crawford

Feb 21

February 24th, 2016

Feb 21

A light rain last night cleared the wood smoke and haze from the air, and the sun shone on a bright morning at Hotel Namaste. I breakfasted outside on pancakes with yak butter which tastes much like cow’s butter only more oily and has a tang– that might be because they have no refrigeration and it is a bit rancid. After making my farewells to the family, it was off to the longest ascent of this trek–over about ten kilometers going from 2470 to 3670 meters. For a little context, that is 12,040 feet. Mt. Katahdin is 5269 while Mt. Rainer is 14,409. This first bit was fairly level and good walking, and I soon arrived at a small village, more like a checkpoint, complete with automatic rifle toting military personnel charging 3600 NPR to enter the next part of the trek. Money is something of a concern as there is no way to use a card and most places places will not even take a 1000 NPR note. After the checkpoint, the path was very steep for about two hours. My cold (which has gotten worse) and the altitude forced many short breaks. Even though the sun is shining and I am sweating in just a t-shirt, there are patches of snow in the shadows and occasionally the trail ices over. The forests have transitioned from oak and beech to pine and juniper, but still have the ubiquitous rhododendron. By 11:00 I arrived at the outskirts of Mangengoth, stopping for lunch at the GreenView Lodge, a place run by relatives of the Namaste Hotel family. Like most larger buildings up in the mountains, the lodge has strings of prayer flags across the surrounding open space, and their fluttering always triggers old memories. When I was growing up in the valley of Virginia, the gas stations (what we called “filling stations”)–Esso, Sinclair, Cities Service — had traditional street signs but also decorated their lots with guy wires strung with multi-colored flags and spinning propellers. It was always easy to find a station because of the color and motion. Catching that moving color here out of the corner of my eye, I get a twinge of recognition. But here, up in these mountains, resting on a stone wall beside yet another ruin, the flags make it sound as if someone is still there rustling about. The descent from Mangengoth took me across fields past empty but still functional buildings, then the path got serious as it climbed up from 3420 to 3690 meters. That is definitely higher than I have ever been, but here it is still not above tree line. The forest remained primarily pine and juniper, though becoming more scrub-like as the afternoon progressed. Ahead was a peak the path would go around, but I could see that a recent rockslide had sheared off most of its face. As I feared, the trail rerouted at that point. The foot stones were fresh and there were small cairns signaling the way, but as it turned out, in order to get past the slip, the path went almost to the top, and my altitude sensitive muscles went on full alert. Until this point, the hour estimates printed on my map had been spot on, but the walk from Mangengoth to Thadepati Bhanjyand was listed as one hour and had taken 2 1/2. Not sure what the kilometer’s were, but at this altitude that is of little consequence. On that path I did scare up two magnificent birds which I think were pheasants– large, with bright blue head feathers that ruffled at the crown. Finally made it to Thadepati and debated finding a room there or descending to Melamchigaon. The latter was only another four km and all downhill, but it would be very steep. Not wanting to start something I couldn’t complete, I rested and evaluated my physical status. The Te Araroa had many long afternoon descents so I understood my limitations but needed to factor in altitude. At the top was a lone man who ran the lodge. We sat and talked as best we could, but mostly enjoyed the warm afternoon sun on those high rocks. I pushed on. It was a steep descent that took several hours moving rapidly through microclimates finally settling into a beech forest, a tree I’ve always loved though near the bottom the piles of leaves obscured the path which made me wonder if the beech here, like those in Georgia, hold their dead leaves until spring when the new leaves push them off. That would explain why here in late winter there are so many intact leaves obscuring the path. After crossing a rickety swinging bridge and climbing a hill, I found Melanchigaon, excited about visiting the Buddhist monastery there. Walking down the alleys–there is no main street–all was rubble. This town too was severely hit by the quake with barely a stone building left standing. The monastery was perhaps the saddest, with its beautiful multi-layered roof tilted and fallen.

The Himalayan Lama Lodge had also fallen in, replaced by a wooden structure with a corrugated roof. I was met in a tiny entry yard by a man with a welcoming glint in his eyes who called himself a lama. His wife joined us, her face framed by a copper-colored head scarf, and we all three watched as one of their chickens pecked up the rice that had just been dumped on the bare dirt. I arranged for a room and dinner, and she kindly showed me my room, a space defined by 3/4″ boards set out under the large metal roof. It had several narrow cots and a breeze coming through the cracks and knots. Glad I carrying a 0-degree sleeping bag. Next door were the toilets, showing a certain humor in the face of such devastation. One labeled “Eastern toilet” was a traditional porcelain footprint over a hole with a bucket of water and dipper nearby. The other door, labeled “Western toilet,” opened onto a pile of rubble. For dinner, the woman offered a menu but her husband definitively said “Dal Bhat,” so it was settled.

Still suffering from a cold, I took a short nap, then joined them for dinner. Like the Namaste Hotel, the room was low and dark. Toward the back were piles of bedding. This building was corrugated steel like so many others– hard to keep warm and equally hard to keep cool. Across the front wall were wooden shelves holding all of the food storage, condiments, and utensils. Along with huge teapots, the primary cooking pots were pressure cookers polished to a high sheen. All the metal pots, cups, and plates were scoured to a high shine, which I have a hard time understanding. Back in my Boy Scout days, cooking with aluminum cookware over an open wood fire would blacken a pot beyond cleaning. Here the brightware is bright and they seem not to even use soap. In the middle of the room by that wall was a wood stove. Set on a concrete slab, it was a u shaped low masonry rim about six inches high topped by a sheet iron plate with a large hole in the middle and a hole at the back for the steel pipe chimney. Wood was fed through the open front under the iron plate. I was invited to sit on the rug-covered floor next to the stove–the only warm place available–though I was careful to leave the space right beside the stove for my new friend, the somebody lama. He sat close, put his hand on my knee and smiled deeply, such a warm and welcoming man. We shared few words but were able to determine relative ages –I’m 59, he’s 63–and then we both settled into the quiet while his wife prepared the meal. She did most everything though he would occasionally hop up to stir things or bring in more wood. She talked the entire time she was cooking, though I don’t think it was directed toward anyone in particular. Rather it was part of a marvelous choreography of gestures. There was no kitchen–no granite countertops (though I bet granite mined here finds its way into upscale American kitchens), no Sub-Zero refrigerators, gas range, or microwave, not even cabinets–but her skill and dexterity was a show, and of course the meal was excellent. We sat there together, huddled around the dying stove, each glowing according to our own satisfactions. Reluctantly I took my leave and groped my way in the dark back to my cot for a good night’s sleep.

T. Hugh Crawford