Day Five

Yesterday’s clouds have gone and as the dawn sky softens from cool slate to warm pink, the first incandescent sunrays smolder the white tip of Annapurna II a smoking gold. She catches me in the court-yard, chilled, puffy-eyed, unsuspecting, and renders me spell-bound on my way for masala tea. People say you can never accurately describe what it feels like to see the majestic Himalaya up close for the first time. It’s a humbling, swallowing, visceral high, unlike anything I have felt before. How can innate rock make me feel this way: utterly dumbfounded, elated, in awe of the inconceivable magic inherent? Let’s agree: I can understand why Nepali have founded their religion in them. It is our first close up view of a Himalayan peak. It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen; not simply because of its sheer size, fantastic aesthetic or world-wide fame (which in their own rights are also quite impressive), but because there is something intangible, subtle, even supernatural in that mystical mass of mountain.

In quiet morning moments, sipping my strong brew, I am blind-sided with why we’re here: close proximity to total earthly perfection. The celestial pervading joy, impossibly-romantic illumination, crystal-clarity and bone-chilling grandeur leaves every soul awake stunned and silent, admiring a sight we are all so lucky and have worked so hard, so far, to see. Suddenly, I am reminded of my fortune, of the love for Troy, my family and friends, and also for myself. It is one of those seconds, one of those few in a lifetime, wrought permanently, deeply to my soul; a euphoric lightness filling through me, opening and ripening my heart. Free from misgiving, distress or regret: I am happy.

What IS this salacious satisfaction? Could the mountains be bringing me in closer touch with God? Or just quieting the distractions to see myself?

Either way, we dreamily move through our morning routine; drugged in overwhelming adoration and Nepal’s interminable beauty. I am you! You are me! We are everything! Ok, ok…I know it that’s abjectly bleeding-heart, ( not my usual bag, baby) but it’s quite possibly the most special sight I’ve seen and the ensuing euphoria succeeds, transcends where lost souls’ chemical attempts complicate, misconstrue and confuse.

Wishing to preserve the calm solitude of the awesome sunrise, as the boom-boxes and boisterous babble are slowly switching on, Troy and I forego breaking our fast to get a head start on the trail. In our hurry, we miss an inconspicuous stretch, to rejoin the wide gravel trail from Bagarchap; the mischievous (and quietly omniscient) donkey biting his tongue and only smiling as we truck past, the wrong way. Twenty minutes of exploring a veritable spider-web of slight trails, I have the hanging feeling of forgetting something, of needing to return. Mentally running through the tally of things I remembered packing and things I wasn’t sure about, a light bulb bursts overhead and I recall strangely setting my Ipod on the balcony ledge. Why did I do that? We stop, lost anyway, and I dash back, leaping over the cobblestone path to the lodge to luckily find my Ipod and ( not so luckily) all the trekkers we tried to pass gathering, loudly, in the courtyard. I guess it’s my just desserts for rushing and I remind myself, no matter the noise, this isn’t a race. Everything always as it should be.

Starting over from the lodge, we notice the correct way, curving east towards the cold, violent-looking river 200 meters below. The modest cluster of worn wooden teahouses comprising Bagarchap clings, somewhat grimly, to the gravel ledge overhanging the river; a deadly landslide obliterating most of the picturesque town a few years prior. The golden light has strengthened to stark brightness, and Annapurna II is now a blinding white. Breaking our northern direction for the first time since Besi Sahar, the trail begins to swing back west, hugging the cliff, climbing higher through a dense, evergreen forest.

Although its decidedly morning, the sun is not strong enough to warm our faces or brittle muscles; the overhanging botanical blot diffusing the cool, alpine sun. We plod, briskly into the crisp forested shade, trying to jump-start our own, built-in heating stomping over the thick mush of red and brown leaves. Chill from the thinning air seems to sterilize every scent -save the slight, ubiquitous aroma of mud- and it’s stinging as I draw breath; my arms and legs rippling with goose bumps. Amazingly, my pack is beginning to feel comfortable slung across my shoulders ( something I never thought possible); the 22lbs thankfully no longer cutting, aching, but an extension of me. Carrying my things myself makes me feel potent, capable, independent.

As we’re tackling the wide, shaded path north-north-west, the majority of the day’s 550m climb confronts us. An inconsistent, extremely steep path, starting as stone steps veering off into dirt incline, slices diagonally into the cliff, obviously a newly fashioned detour resulting from monsoon erosion. In the distance, we see the slow procession of hikers, their tiny heads bobbing slowly, with marked determination, upwards. After crossing a “rustic bridge” ( two enormous logs, slippery with moisture and moss, over which we shimmy, clumsy in thick-soled cumbersome boots) beneath the thick canopy of dark greenery, we buckle down, steadily plodding skywards against this brutal, make-shift ascent. Half way up the steep, shaded slope, we reach an extremely narrow switchback, about the width of my feet side-by-side, and the familiar stiffness and nausea of my acrophobia sets in. One slip and I’m a pinball clinking down, break, snap, crack; a rag-doll against the impervious, innumerable tree trunks. I lean completely forward, palm to gripless dirt and waddle, ever so carefully to the next, wider section, feeling I am getting better at cliffhanging. I didn’t even cry :)

The towering feather and stretch of pine branches breaks at the top of the hill, where we are given are first and only view of the highest peak in region: Manaslu. Palest blue, its contours against the sky’s hue ever so slight in the pastel distance, rising jagged and massive. Climbing higher, our south eastern view is framed with the lush, hunter-green of high altitude evergreens and scrubby juniper and our shiny faces are finally flushed in the morning sunrays.

This is much more than I’d dreamed; worth each ounce of blood, sweat and tears spent getting here. As I’m slathered in scenery, sunrays and sweat, there’s contentment, joy. Troy and I take a moment to download into our permanent memory banks. It doesn’t get any better than this.

We admire this mighty panorama, catch our breath, and take a photo. In doing so, the approaching trekker we’d tried desperately to outrun reaches us. Initially, Troy and I feared he led the entire pack of 20 French pole-prodding trekkers from Bagarchap, and not wanting to be knee-deep in blaring music and other various humanoid disturbances (no! no! no! oooh-lala! Jean-Claude!) we pushed, breathlessly beyond our fitness, ahead. We can see now, and feel a bit sheepish, he’s alone and impossibly friendly.

Ron Eckert; why I left my Ipod, and started off the wrong way this morning. None of us know it yet, but he’s my guardian angel. Standing an athletic 5’11, he’s textbook: equipped with high-tech doodads and brand-name outdoor gear we didn’t have the expertise or foresight to bring; his perfect white smile and strong jaw bristled in a groomed salt-pepper beard. Picture the most quintessential outdoorsman, stir in contagious high-spirits a measure of gregarious good-nature and there you have it. Ron hails from Vancouver, and despite being 61, does not look a day over 40; an inspiring commercial for the benefits of healthy-living and life-long exercise. Continuing up the last of the climb, we enjoy a smiling ( he was doing the smiling, us the labored huffing) conversation about the views, iodine vs. chlorine purification, and his 22 year-old daughter also on the trek, Christiana; in his voice the approachable and upbeat articulation of a jovial top-40 radio announcer.

Suddenly, a large, wily dog appears and threatens, barking and growling, trotting aggressively from the trees. Rudely snapped from my merriment, a lone memory fizzles across my throbbing cranial neurons: foolishly declining the doctor’s suggestion for rabies inoculations at the Red Cross in Bangkok. Treatment for rabies entails a series of fourteen, 6-inch-plus, stomach-stabbed shots, but let’s not fantasize about the rewards just yet. We freeze in panic, and I visualize my bloody flesh speared on the brute’s jagged incisors. We have no defense. A leg injury, however minor, to any of us would ruin the remaining three weeks of hiking, probably requiring a dicey helicopter ride back to Kathmandu for treatment.

Easy. Eaaaaasy. No sudden movements.