Day Three - Bahundanda to Chamje - 1310m to 1420m ( loss of 300m gain of 410m)

We don't wake up to the sound of the alarm at 6:30. The very last people to rise, eat and finally leave at 8:30am, we have little regret agreeing we needed every second of rest. The nagging sense we need to hurry, however, plants itself firmly into both of us, and we rush to pack and hit the trail. I am glad to feel mildy refreshed with 12 hours of sleep, amazed with my body's speedy recovery. Last night, I couldn't have continued another inch, and this morning, my neck and calves are aching, but I'm ready. I think...

We are greeted with smells of fresh mud and the sweet smoke of smoldering juniper; burned as an offering to Budhha. The morning is perfect, again: cooler than yesterday, no clouds, a light mist shrouding the base of the valley. Our view is blotted with all shades of green: terraced fields, spongy shrubs, hemlock and birch. We turn the corner exiting Bahundanda, and I'm confused to see the trail heading back down to the river. After studying the map for our route we learn, depressingly, much of the 1700ft we climbed yesterday will be immediately lost, quickly, in the first 45 minutes; a frustrating situation that occurs frequently on the circuit. Such a waste of energy. Envying the school-bound youngsters leaping down around me in thongs ( of the footwear, not underwear, classification), I chant in slow steps down: God...grant...me...the...serenity ( or at least sure-footing and knees-of-steel like theirs)

Although both of us brought a fully-charged Ipod, we leave them packed, surprisingly, preferring the calming sounds of the valley to music from home. An admitted addiction and usually a welcome distraction, my Ipod would become unecessary added weight for all of the trek. Absorbing Himalayan audibles is as pleasureable as the visuals.

Both of us purchased high-quality hiking boots before setting foot in Nepal, though we did meet several ill-prepared trekkers in low-rise trainers claiming boots were unecessary. This was, of course, before they hit snow and ice. We came to appreciate boots and their water-proofing quickly, as in many places, "trail" is a euphemism for a barely passable incline/decline choked with huge slippery boulders, mule manure, foot-deep mud and/or moving water. Constant attention and care is necessary to avoid injury.

**an aside: Entertainingly, these treacherous stretches would often be described by a Nepali as: "flat" and, thus, the misnomer "Nepali flat" was coined. Along those lines, never fully trust Nepali estimates of proximity or difficulty**

Clumsy under the added weight of my pack, I misstep into a mud-manure mix, and my ankle ( not my ego) is spared with the support of my Northface boots. Traumatic memories involving Bavarian pseudo-stones of cow shit flood me: On a family picnic in Germany, frolicking, my 8-year-old bare foot sunk into a sickly steaming load I'd mistaken for a smooth rock. In a move of cosmic poetic justice, Troy, cackling as hysterically as my family did 19 years ago, would become vastly superior in manure-boot meetings. I spent many a night trying to locate rotten smells before accrediting his unhygenic talent and contaminated boots.

The quick descent levels, path sneaks and winds upwards nestled in moist forest. Sweat-dampened, we continue easily along the slight incline with uniformed children, trail clinging to the sloping bend of the hills. I think about the truth in their future bragging of : "5 miles, uphill, both ways". *see pic*

White water ribbons thread the rocky expanse to the west, zig-zagging down in rainbowed spray from boulder to boulder, falling as much as 3000ft to the river. Before this, the only waterfall I'd seen was the 80ft Sacred Falls on Oahu, Hawaii. These are more than ten times the size, and, unbelievably, even more beautiful. I feel a lightness, a happiness, and continue with a subtle, internal grin. I'm elated to have my soulmate and best friend plodding contently along with me. We are in this moment; I am completely fulfilled.

One of our maps, no doubt published by some hippie, demarcs "healthy" marajuana fields on this leg. We search excitedly in vain, only spotting buckwheat and yellow sprigs of Anise ( the main flavor in black liquorice and Sambuca), settling for the pot-caked hands of a hash-manufacturer just before Lamjung.

"Smoke hash?" he stops to inquire, offering a sniff of his sticky-sweet palms. After giving us a quick lesson in hash production, and politely refusing to show us the mother-lode, he garners 20 rupees with his warm, smiling request ( about a quarter) and continues on his way. *see pic*

Because the hills we climb are slowly creeping higher, it is not long after leaving Jagat - our lunch stop- our hike is bathed in cool shadow, as the sun has ducked behind the westward slope. We feel good.

Jagat is where the Maoists are supposedly collecting "donations" or more accurately: forceful, involuntary extortion with the added bonus of possible violence. I knew Nepal had a history of political instability, but didn't know anything about the Maoists before researching our trip. With strongholds in many remote areas, away from the accountability of law, they hold a carte blanche for their behavior; forcing total compliance with their desires, luring impoverished youngsters to enlist with promises of protection and stolen wealth. All this is under the convenient pretense of representing their political views, and resisting the control of the monarchy. Total crap. They are a wiley militant group, terrorists in my humble opinion, much closer to bandits than political revolutionaries, and tales of their involvement with battery and corruption are rife even though they claim to value tourists and tourism. Extortion and manipulation of the poor Nepalis is even more appalling; squatting in any village they please, ordering the locals to feed and house them at their own expense. They allegedly beat a young trekker bloody, days after we passed their checkpoint, for refusing to pay their "fees" stating he was Polish and sharing their communist views. With the 73 seats they were given in Parliament, they are supposed to end extortion, but quitting a limitless flow of funds in a 3rd world country seems dubious.

We trek blissfully into the late afternoon, discussing the likelihood of skirting them, when we approach Chamje: their new checkpoint. Ten men with loaded rifles, sit and stand behind a crude wood stand, clothed in military fatigues. They stop us and feign etiquette when requesting "fees" for their cause. I do not doubt encountering seething ferocity, now thinly blanketed in civility, if we were to stupidly refuse them. Just wanting to get the hell out of there, we pay them a Nepali fortune: 2400 rupees ( about $33 ), and request passage. The leader launches into an accusatory sermon on our current administration, and inside, my exasperation builds. What an uneducated idiot! Individuals with the interest, finance and education to sit here with them, half a world away from the U.S., don't like the effing bastards either. I think I'm giving them a piece of my mind, rolling my eyes and flicking them off. What actually happens is : we listen silently, nod sheepishly, our proverbial tails jammed down between our butt-cracks in acknowledgement of their semi-automatic weapons. Aroused by our submission ( ?), they command us to stay at the Waterfall Inn, and curtly bid us leave with a wave of the hand.

Rudely yanked from euphoria, we plodded on to Chamje in the wet dusk, taking solace in our eventless and completed rendezvous with the Maoists. Unexpectedly, the Waterfall Inn was all right, perched across the deep canyon from, you guessed it, a dramatic waterfall! I'd underestimated the meditative properties in the sounds of rushing water, and sit on the balcony enveloped with myself for almost an hour.

I'm tired, but thankfully, not like yesterday.

We chat up a strapping bloak from Montana (who attempted to summit Manaslu back in 1999) before retiring to our spidery abode. I force Troy to switch beds when a hairy, seven-inch arachnid crawls into view directly over my head. Much to his chagrin, I click on my headtorch intermittantly, all night, in search for other 8-legged friends.

Rest eludes me tonight.