Day Four-Part Three

Immediately, I lose the facade of reason I’d so painstakingly painted around me minutes prior. We’ve gone the wrong way. Monsoon rains, which fed the destructive landslide that swept away the path behind are also, I notice, responsible for demolishing chunks of the ancient staircase; feeble, torn tree roots and splintering rock the only thing restraining myriad fat boulders. They loom; definite, jagged, nerve-racking, with high a probability of dislocating from the carious expanse beside us.

Of course locals, frequently traversing all sections of the circuit, know when a path becomes dangerous, impassable, and subsequently devise a ( not so conspicuous) detour. Sometimes its tree branches laid horizontally across a path. Sometimes someone else will cross in time and help. But, sometimes (many times as our trekking gods would command) you have nothing at all. Not having a guide, an experienced trekker, a local, or even an exact map of the area, we followed where the path seemed evident; in this case, going the wrong way, wasting an exhausting, sweaty ascent and most harmfully, needlessly endangering our safety. This was our first scary lesson: the apparent way is not always the right one.

Now it’s time to get down.

Solar radiation from my astral onlooker unaffectedly cooks skin and retinas which, unfortunately for me, are without hat and sunglasses today. The heavy heat presses mercilessly around my hot skull, which seems to exacerbate my heartbeat, now fluttering dangerously out of control. Though I’m not moving anymore, I feel painful cardio convulsions. Beat…beat…beat.beat.beat….beat. My arrhythmia, a deleterious consequence of highly stressful situations, chokes and throbs sporadically in a stiff chest. Each feral, defiant breath pulls quicker in a violent reflex, the friction of baked air against my inner flesh stinging, until the shallow, oxygen-less rhythm staggers me in dizziness. Tightness behind my eyes and temples pulls, twists and squeezes to fashion a thick migraine squarely in my sizzling brain.

A full-blown panic attack.

I’m woozy and seeing stars, fastened anxiously, precariously, to an apathetic rock far from the safety of civilization. Seriously: What if I slip? What if I need medical attention? What if my haggard heart short-circuits? Suddenly, the lurking, disabling fear I’d been repressing, bursts hotly forth rolling down my cheeks in salty streams. I’m a city girl who buys Starbucks, cute tops and pedicures. I’m not an effing mountaineer. What the hell am I doing here?

“Trooooooooooooooooooooooy” I blare breathlessly behind me. I strain over the whistle of wind and distant churn of the river, trying to hear a response. Only the well-timed, possibly mocking caw of a passing crow. Pressing my pack forcefully into the gritty step behind me, and gripping a clump of weeds, I look over my left shoulder, pleading to see any sign of my boyfriend, trekking partner, savior.

Nothing.

Inching carefully down the stone and dirt incline, I’m desperate, keeping my eyes locked on the small, distant man still waving to me. Almost imperceptibly, the words “I’m OK” slip across my lips; steadily increasing into a chant. I’m making my way down, allowing my focus to tame wild, counterproductive fear. Ignoring the distinctly fatal, barrierless drop to my immediate right, I’m squatting, pressing my back into the mountain. Moist triceps flex, clutch the worn rock behind me and I ease my weight down another few feet. My sweat-soaked backpack clumsily lurches forward, almost over my head, and back down again, teetering by its straps as I lean down, then stretch a leg carefully down from the patch of rock I’m on. I loose my breath for a split-second each wobbly pace down, assured the cumbersome weight of my pack or an unlucky misstep will topple me. Salty and completely drenched, even my fingers ( WTF?) are perspiring. The tip of my right hiking boot plants on the uneven, widening path beneath me, and my body elongates, slides slowly down to meet it. I imagine thick sharp teeth gripping, pushing through my soles, easing my step, prohibiting a slip. After descending this way for an apprehensive eternity ( but probably more like 15 minutes), the stones grow attractively larger and the flight of steps is tolerable, almost easy by comparison. Again I see the hot blue, towering grey, dry green brush, bubbling torrent, parched valley; everything. The breathtaking picture is just as I mentally left it minutes ago. Far away, just barely in my view, I cherish the unmistakable, airy bob of a butterfly. I collapse for a moment, resting my back against the mountain, catching my breath and staring blankly upwards; such a vivid expanse.

I’m off that damn deathtrap!!

Witnessing my descent and presuming my safety, the heaven-sent guide throws a quick thumbs up, and continues north, following the river, as did the fellow I noticed before our 45-minute, pointless climb. I wave and zealously shout my thanks. Moving normally now and almost back to the gravel-covered ground, I turn to see Troy moving effortlessly down the dilapidated staircase, in leaps and bouncy bounds, like a confident, rambunctious youngster blissfully blind to the inherent danger of haste and high things. Waiting until he’s in earshot he smiles and shouts, almost chuckling:

“Just drops off up there…must be the wrong way”

I prepare mentally for a verbal barrage to assail him. You left me! That was a stupid decision! I could have slipped, fallen to my death! Why did we go this way instead of waiting for someone else? This is a landslide area and could have killed us both! What the hell are you thinking? Don’t you care what happens? AAAAAAAAAAAH!!!

Grimacing with my brow tightly furrowed, I mull the best expletives for completion of my feelings, as he cheerfully descends the last stair. Through gritted teeth, I draw a vengeful breath. He grins, approaches, and stops genuinely surprised to see the expression on my face. **An admitted flaw in my personality is my quick temper. Although its remarkably fleeting, the wounds it inflicts always leave me-and my victim- disturbed, regretful, and I promised myself part of this trip would be devoted to improving and learning about myself ( as well as others).** I tiredly exhale the anger ( which, over the years, I’ve become too proficient in hording and kindling) and phobic mania, heavily, slowly and through the dissolving haze, see my beautiful, breathless best friend.

“Yea…you’re right. Must be the wrong way. Let’s try the river”

He agrees and we set off following the proper trail to the north.

The wide dry valley and churning river pour through a zigzagging, narrowing pass after which the climate and brush becomes decidedly alpine, very much reminding me of Lake Tahoe in the summer: rugged chalky cliffs flagged by various evergreens with hoopoe, crow and hawk gliding through toasty thermal pockets. **One of the most amazing features of the Annapurna circuit trek is the dramatic change in elevation-and therefore flora & fauna-in a very short distance. If you remember we started by a waterfall in the rainforest!**We come to the second suspension bridge, and its much more dramatic than the first: a flexible alloy ladder slung laterally fifty feet above snarling, shallow rapids anchored sufficiently ( or so I hoped) into the rocks with 4 thick screws on each side. The addition of another trekker or donkey transforms the bridge into a nauseating mix of violent see-saw and funhouse walkway. Apparently, my pained expression and stiff gripping of the cables ( or maybe my petulance? :D ) was inciting as Troy ensured I didn’t pass without launching me skyward. I’m still not sure if he noticed the missing planks, in alarming groups of two and three, as he gleefully stomped from the other end.

Heading east over the river and finally approaching the last portion of the day’s trek, the trail is a straightforward, steep ascent of broken stairs which tightly hug the cliff before widening and flattening into a slight, steady incline. Thin clouds in several shades of grey press together and towards the ground, blanketing the valley in fog and cooling us in moist, welcome shade. My head finally stops throbbing. The dusty gravel path grows to 25-30ft across; wide enough for the carriages and Clydesdales, rhythmically clopping, ringing with slews of reindeer carillon and garbed in colorful ethnic weave. It is barely raining.

We discuss our likes and dislikes -so far- of different types of trails, and both agree this stretch is the easiest and most pleasant, when factoring in difficulty, danger, and effort. So, it wasn’t too challenging to stimulate our sore, sweaty stems to carry us, quickly and steadily beyond the bottle-neck of trekkers on their way to Bagarchap. The cool mist and crisp wisps of silver fir across our noses propelled us forth; we arrived second to the lodge, and first to sample the amazing, solar powered ( and actually HOT) shower.

After cleaning up, while on the balcony, my quivering calves ( which had been bothering me all day) decide to revamp their anatomical position, seizing upwards to the back of my knees. Buckling at the waist, knees and ankles, in a sort of skeleton jangle, I eke out a three-toned sour sound to the attention of those in the courtyard; one German fellow decides, altruistically, to shout advice on the importance of proper post-workout stretching.

Dinner is consumed quickly and quietly save the few minutes spent discussing Charlie horses and a poor donkey who’d been jostled from his load-sharing brethren, in a bone-cracking, five hundred meter fall; eerily the same place where, earlier, I’d almost gone over trying to pass. The evening is very chilly after dark; maybe even below freezing and delicious hot lemon has become a staple thawing beverage. We are droned to sleep by the next-door monotone of two hippies from the US discussing, among many other fascinating things, their cats’ sleep patterns, the consumption of only organic produce and a shared obsession with ginger tea.