The trail has left behind the trees and flowers. The villagers are surrounded by millet and sorghum fields. Beyond this cultivation are rough fields of high-altitude grass. Yaks lazily chomp their cuds under the watch of young masters. They gather the yak paddies to dry in the sun. The main source of heat in the Himalayas. We have been transported back five-hundred years. Still no sign of civilization, except for bottled beers. Not a single TV antenna spout over the sturdy stone houses. None of them are made of wood.
At the first tea stop I wash my filthy sox in the raging river, careful not to fall into the savage torrent. Such an accident risked serious injury. Hiking with dirty sox in my boots feels like I walking in mud. I switch to flip-flops, same as the sherpas. The trail is easy as we have entered a broad valley.
My thoughts of losing weight by trekking were ruined by the constant eating to fuel the uphill trek. I have gained a few kilos and will have to be careful to not pack on more in Paris.
Still I’m in the best shape I’e been in after the months in Bali, Sumatra, Malaysia, and Thailand. My heart faithfully pumps blood into my oxygen-starved brain. I pissed and shit like a Sherpa. All my organs seem to be in working order and I’ve even relegated my brains down to my fifth favorite.
LATER
Another village. More doctoring. A lama has asked to see me. I go into a small house. the room is illuminated by yak butter oil lamps. Ancient prayer books and scriptures are stacked on the wood planked floor and the mud walls are covered with a pantheon of demonic illustrations. The lama is in his fifties, only a little old than me, but he looks eternal and serene.
Dorge translated his blessings.
“Some of the demons are good. Some bad. Nothing in between,”
“Like human beings.”
He has heard of my quack doctor routine. No one I treated has complained of my remedies to infected eyes, festering wounds, or my other gentle minstrations. I try to gie the lama my flashlight. He refuses with a smile saying he doesn’t want to defile the earth with discarded batteries. I’m probably one of countless foreigners who think giving is good, but there is no way anyone up this high could ever afford the batteries needed to use anything electric.
My father drove us a few times to Mt. Monadanock in lower New Hampshire. It’s height was less than three thousand, however the top was above the treeline and the taller White Mountains were visible to the north. My father entered the summit hut and read my words. The Maine native was instantly angry by my writing in the humble mountain’s guest book, “The view in for the birds.”
My father was very straight and regarded my sentences as anti-social behavior. He was right. I was on the path to ruin. I had never been higher in my young life and was hurt by my father’s lecture. The trails on Monadanock were well-traveled, yet every year someone dies stepping off the trail.
Here we are 3000 meters above the sea. Danger exists here from avalanches, falls, wild yaks, the winter cold, rock slides, and demons. I bow to the lama and step into the brilliant sun. Not a cloud in the sky.
I am a day’s hike from the glacier.
Last night I could read a book by the starlight.
I am as far as I will be from civilization on this trip.
Yet I am no uncivilized by this trek.
I’m just glad not to be in the white world.
I haven’t spoken to my family in Boston since calling them collect after my head-on motorcycle accident north of Chiang Mai. I said nothing about the crash. I had already chopped off the cast and the morphine pills killed the pain. I still had a few, but I’m saving them for the long flight to Paris.
My parents didn’t mention any mishaps on that phone call.
No bad here.
No bad there.
I intend on finishing THE BEST IS YET TO COME this summer.
Maybe someone will read it, so my parents know there second son is not a ne’er-do-well. Then again thee people up here think I’m a doctor. As was my grandfather. I join Dice and Dorge and Lance. We set off for the last stage.
The Langtang Glacier.