Himalayan Trek: Part Two
I walked all day. The air was clear; the temperature was warm but not hot. I ascended the hills, one after another, and crossed more bridges over streams. Most of the time I was alone. Once a Nepali laborer with a huge load of firewood on his back passed me going in the other direction; he scarcely acknowledged my presence but simply continued on his way, almost running despite his heavy burden. Sometimes I heard woodcutters working in the distance, but I never spotted them.
The most traumatic and dangerous experience involved a water buffalo blocking the path. I had come up a steep flight of stairs and there it was, standing in a narrow gap between cliff-like ledges. Its enormous girth left only a couple of feet on either side of the sheer wall. It had massive horns, and it kept snorting out of its mucus-covered nostrils. The only way onward was past that thing. What was I to do? It gave no indication that it planned to move in the near future. For me, to return to Pokhara in ignominious defeat was out of the question. Instead, I stepped forward and slowly inched past on the left side of the beast. If it shifted its weight only slightly it could have crushed me, but it simply stood there motionless, snorting occasionally, until I was safely past.
Another issue that came up was drinking water. I had no idea whether the water in the streams I passed was clean or not; for all I knew, they might pass through villages that cast their waste into them. However, I had no choice but to drink from them. The water tasted clean, at least.
Onward and upward I walked, seldom stopping to rest. I found a comfortable pace and kept at it, hour after hour, mile after mile. The ubiquitous silence, broken by intermittent birdsong, was soothing, comforting, and profound. As I ascended I felt cleansed. I was leaving the confusion of the communities of humankind for the abode of prophets, of sadhus, and of other holy persons. I gave no thought to the descent; I focused on going higher and yet higher, on finding out what I would discover at the top of the next slope, and the next, and the next.
Finally, though, as is always inevitable even on the most propitious of days, the sun neared the horizon and nightfall loomed. At the perfect serendipitous moment I came across an inn or hostel in that faraway place. I could sleep in a dormitory room in back and have a meal of all the rice and yellow dahl I could eat for a ridiculously low price. I decided to take advantage of this opportunity to rest up so I could continue onward the following day. I ate at least three heaping plates of food, went to bed, fell into a profound sleep, woke at dawn, and drank a few cups of tea thick with milk and flavored with cardamom, ginger, cinnamon, cloves, and sugar.
Fueled and refreshed, I continued hiking up the path, which by this time had got quite narrow. The landscape was more forested here, and more frequently I heard woodcutters in the groves of trees, but I never spotted them. Onward and upward I went for a few more hours until I came to a point where I could see the snowline not too far in the distance. At that I hesitated. If I kept walking, I was not so confident that I would find any more hostels – or, in fact, habitations of any kind. I had no equipment for camping. What was I doing? Where the hell did I think I was going?
Just a hundred yards or so to the left of the trail was an isolated and steep grass-covered hillock. I decided to climb to the top and ponder my situation and the options open to me. I sat cross-legged staring at the snow-capped peaks and realized that if I went too far in that direction I might truly be risking my life. Was I prepared to take that step? It occurred to me that all of my travels had led to that solitary spot in the Himalayan Mountains. I had been searching for clarity and quiet. I wanted to still the chaotic voices of humankind that always seemed to be pounding in my head by finding a place of peace and serenity. And I had found it. I’d never find a quieter spot than that. It came to me as a revelation, though, that I was faced with two choices: I could continue to climb higher into the mountains and possibly die, or I could return the way I had come and learn to somehow retain my inner peace even though surrounded by the confusion of human communities. I had never been a gregarious person; I had always, at heart, been a loner. I realized, though, that I had no death wish. I had to go back. And hopefully, now that I had found a place of contentment and clarity, I could carry it back with me in my heart.
The decision made, I started back down the mountain. I managed to hike the entire distance back to Pokhara in a single day – going down, of course, is easier and faster than going up. I stopped only once – at a small village to purchase a packet of sweet biscuits and a cup of tea. When I reached Pokhara I found another all-you-can-eat rice and dahl restaurant and feasted. By the lakeside, the German Shiva-worshipping hippies had left. It didn’t matter to me. By that time I was exhausted enough to fall into a deep, satisfying sleep.
My troubles weren’t over, of course; I was still near-broke. I hitched a ride on a bus to the Indian border, took a train to Delhi, found a spot on the floor in the cheapest traveler’s hostel I could find, and almost starved before enough funds arrived from the west so that I could make it back to Europe. Ah, what glorious adventures we can enjoy if we are crazy enough to attempt them!
If you want to hear more about my travels in the United States, Central America, Europe, the Middle East, and the Indian Subcontinent, check out my memoir World Without Pain: The Story of a Search.
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