I wake up in the middle of the night to use the toilet. As I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, I tumble. My legs are paralyzed with pain. My quadriceps and calves refuse to work. This is the first time during the entire trip I’ve been sore so I’m surprised. I pick myself up off the floor and make my way to the bathroom.

After breakfast I tell Min I’m ready to go to the temple, as he had suggested the previous day. “No. No temple. No time,” he says without looking at me. “But yesterday you said. You said we’d go after breakfast.” He shakes his head no. I want to go to the temple. He stands there, looking at the ground. I give up. We set out with the rest of the group to Kagbeni.

The terrain is markedly different from before Thorong La Pass. Before, there was greenery, trees, waterfalls, wildlife. Here, there are dusty rocks. It appears to be a wasteland, virtually no life whatsoever.

We arrive to Kagbeni. We have a cup of tea then explore the town, what was once a stronghold of the Tibetan empire. There is a monastery with beautiful masks and statues of Buddha. There are goats, and cows, and horses. There is a Yak Donald’s – the sign printed in a very familiar gold and red.

We make our way to Jomson to have lunch. For some reason I thought it was a 1 ½ hour trip. It was almost 3 hours. Shortly into our walk the winds pick up. For the next 6 hours we are walking into a strong headwind. Each time we take a step downward, my thighs scream with pain.

I’ve tied my bandanna around my hair to keep my scalp from burning – my sunhat continues to blow off with the strong winds. I wish I had another bandanna to wrap around my nose and mouth, bandit style. The dust stirred up by the gusty winds are almost unbearable.

In Jomson we walk through town to get to the restaurant where the guides want to eat. We pass the Army Mountain Warfare Training Unit, heavily guarded by military. I want to take a picture, but think better of it.

We finally arrive to Marpha, our destination for the evening. I’ve never been so happy to reach somewhere. Marpha is famous for its apples. For dinner we order homemade house wine. I’m envisioning a slightly sweet, appley concoction. What arrives is a clear liquid that tastes like Xerox cleaning fluid. We set it aside and order apple cider instead.

I have a hot shower for the first time on this trip. Oh, what I’ve taken for granted…

Battling Altitude Sickness

Hot noodle soup is delicious for breakfast. Although, I’m going to feel silly telling people I ate Top Ramen while in Nepal.

The walk at first is easy. Then we begin the climb. Up, up, up, up. I’m walking slower and slower. We reach the top of the hill where a tea house is conveniently located. I start to sit down. “No!” Ganga says. “Stand first. Then sit.” I stand for a few minutes then sit on a hard bench, sipping a tin cup of hot lemon, that sugary citrusy drink I love so much. As I sit and sip I feel my head expanding. It feels as though there is a balloon in my sinuses and it’s slowly inflating. As I’m trying to warm myself, I wonder if my head could actually explode and what would happen if it did. Messy. I suddenly stop myself. That’s silly. Am I suffering from altitude sickness? I decide not and we continue.

We stop for lunch at 10:15 am at Thorong Pedi, altitude 4,816 meters. My head is pounding now. I eat my noodle soup (again), take a handful of Advil, and lay my head down on the table. After a 45 minute nap, Min wakes me up. “Chom?” “Chom, chom,” I reply – let’s go.

We begin the walk up the steep hill to High Camp. We pass billy goats grazing on a hillside, hundreds of them. As we continue, it begins to snow. I’ve left my winter fear in my main pack with Durga; I’m wearing only my sunhat and jacket. We continue slowly, my hands growing colder, number, redder and more chapped with every step.

We finally reach the top. I unpack my bag and settle in for an afternoon in the dining hall. There isn’t heat, but there are lots of people and hot drinks. We play cards, write, and read. I meet Ana and Mercedes from the Basque Country in Spain, and Ori from Israel. I see Andrea from New Zealand and Tonya from the US. The elderly French man that we see on the path each day is asleep in the window seat.

At 5:30 Abby and Essie arrive. At the first tea house stop Abby discovered she didn’t have her wallet. In a panic, she and Essie began the hike back to Yak Karka. Halfway there, she thought she remembered putting it in a pocket in her fleece, which was in her main pack, which was in the tea house. Not wanting to take the chance that the wallet wasn’t there, they continued to Yak Karka, discovered the wallet wasn’t there, returned to the tea house, found the wallet, and continued on, an extra four hours added to their already long day.

For dinner, I order chow mien and a slice of cheese. I know it will be yak cheese, but I don’t care. I need some protein. My chow mien arrives, but no cheese. I ask the waiter about the cheese. He returns moments later and hands me the hugest block of yak cheese I’ve seen. The communal table erupts in laughter. I take a small chunk and pass it around. It’s enough for everyone to have some, with much left over.

Julie says to me, “Aren’t you worried you’ll have bad dreams?” I look at her quizzically. “Red wine and cheese before bed can give you bad dreams.” Hm. I didn’t know that.
6:30. Bed time. It’s dark outside and we’re waking up at 4 am to trek over Thorong La Pass.

I’m washing my face in icy water and Min calls to me, ‘Didi (sister)! Come here!” I quickly dry my face and run up the hill. “There? See?” The rain from last night has washed away all of the clouds. There, in the distance, in Monasolu, snow capped. I gasp at its beauty.

We begin our walk. I see a watch peddler on the side of the path. I remind Min I need a watch; mine has stopped. He picks out a fancy schmancy gold plated one. I shake my head, explaining I want the cheapest one, nothing fancy. He thinks I should have a fancy one. “You need a waterproof one.” I start to protest and then stare at him in amazement. He’s taken the watch and submerged it in his water bottle. “I want to make sure it’s waterproof,” he offers. I don’t even know where to start. If he ruins the watch, do I have to buy it? If he doesn’t ruin it, do I have to buy it? I don’t want that watch. I tell him I only need the watch at night time, that I won’t wear it during the day. He puts the submerged watch back on display. He chooses a black plastic digital watch. I nod. He bargains. After several rounds of what sound like insults, he whispers to me, “140 rupees.” $2.10. I thank him for getting a good price and hand him the money. He hands it to the peddler, who blesses it before putting it in his wallet. 7:5 am and we’re on our way.

We round the corner and I see the greenest lake I’ve ever seen. I wonder if is is green from algae growth, but, no, it is pure Himalayan snow water, the color of jade. We sit to rest, each eating an apple. The apples aren’t sweet, but are crispy and slightly tart. The three of us sit in silences, staring at the many shades of green surrounding us: the lake, the trees, the grass, the mountainside, feeling the combination of the warm sun and the cool breezes brush against us.

We rest again, this time at the base of the steep switchback that will lead us to Gwaru at the top of the mountain. Not many people take this route because of the steep climb. I had been told the views were insanely beautiful, so I convinced Min and Durga to continue on past Pisang, the normal stopping point for trekkers. They were reluctant. We sit on a stone wall next to a row of prayer wheels. Min produces a bag of peanuts, which we crack and eat in silence3, enjoying the view of the mountains in front of us with a river snaking around and through them. After some time Min looks at me. “Chom?” he asks. Ready. “Chom chom,” I answer. Let’s go. With that we begin the ascent.

I go very slowly. Step. Step. Step. Step. The village we are trying to get to has long disappeared from sight. All that is in front of us is a dirt path, steeply winding up the mountain.

We come to a resting point, a couple of large rocks on the side of the path suitable for sitting upon. We rest, staring out towards the mountains shrouded in clouds. Suddenly, light shines and the clouds drift away, revealing Annapurna IV in all her majesty. The snow capped peaks appear to pierce the heavens. I sit in awe, knowing I’ve made the right choice to embark on the harder route.

Step. Step. Step. Step. We’ve been ascending for almost an hour and a half, virtually straight uphill. As we round the corner we see a sign on the tree. “Gwaru. You are here.” The sign also listed the names and locations of the three guest houses located in Gwaru. I am ecstatic. We’ve made it!

Except we haven’t. The switchbacks continue for another 30 minutes and it begins to drizzle. Then rain. I am angry at the sign. How can it say “you are here” when you obviously are not?

We arrive, finally, to the town of Gwaru, a collection of three guest houses and a few other stone buildings. All buildings are made of the same beige stone – the village blends into the mountain. It’s raining now, hared. Walking through the gate of the village, I’m walking back into the medieval ages. The stone buildings are so close together they form a maze throughout the village, a fortress on the hill. We duck into the first guest house – Yak Run Hotel. The sign boasts of hot showers and a fireplace. I get excited.

After sharing a cup of herbal tea with Min, I go to take a shower. I carry my soap and towel and change of clothes into the concrete block. I get undressed and turn on the tap that is eye level, dubious that the water will be hot and amused at the liberty with which the word “shower” was used on the sign. I turn the faucet. Nothing happens. I turn it more. Still nothing. I try the other way. Nothing. I stand there, shivering, wondering what to do next. I wrap my sarong around me and throw a thermal top on. I walk out, past the bedrooms, through the dining room, and outside, around the house and to the kitchen. “Excuse me? Namaste?” I call out. A couple of old women’s heads pop out. “I can’t get the water to work in the shower.” With that, nothing is said, but one runs past me, through the house, and returns moments later with a large tin bucket. She fills it with water then motions for me to follow her. We go back through the dining room, past the bedrooms and into the concrete block. She sets the bucket down and says, “Shower.” I nod and simply laugh.

There are three other trekkers in the village tonight, and we are all staying at the Yak Ru Hotel. They are from the Czech Republic, a father and his daughter and her boyfriend. The daughter and boyfriend leave to brave the bucket shower. The father and I sit at opposite tables in the dining room. In stilted English, he begins a conversation. He is from Prague, his is on vacation with his daughter, but he is sad because he thinks this will be their last vacation together. She now has a friend, a special friend. Many years ago, they took a vacation to the US together and toured national parks. He was very happy then. He knew they had many more vacations together. He had a son also, but he died several years ago because he was ill. I’m feeling this is a very heavy conversation – both because of the topics and because of the long pauses in between each utterance as he searches for the English word. He stands up, I think to leave, but says, “May I introduce myself?” Without waiting for an answer he says, “I am George.” “George?”” I am surprised. That doesn’t seem like a Czech name. “Really Juri, but that is hard to pronounce. So I say George.” I tell him I am Lori. He extends his hand to shake, when I extend mine, he takes it and kisses it lightly. “A pleasure to meet you,” he says. I am charmed.

I am wearing two sets of thermals, a fleece, a cashmere scarf, a hat, and wool socks, curled up in my sub-zero sleeping bag. I am freezing. I am so cold it hurts. How am I going to fall asleep? The fireplace, as the hot shower, is a myth.

Day 2

For breakfast a pot of ginger tea and hot porridge with apples is placed in front of me. I am ecstatic – my favorite breakfast. I ask Min if I’ll be able to get this everywhere on the trek. He laughs and assures me yes.

It’s sunny and clear, not a cloud in sight. We begin to walk.

After about four hours of steadily uphill, Min announces we are here. At the town where essentially Room to Read was born. We walk through the town, past seamstresses sewing on machines powered by foot, past men chopping sticks with machetes, preparing them for fences. At the end of the narrow path is a school. Three men sit outside on a bench. Min says something to them. One stands up. “Namaste,” I say, with my hands placed together as if in prayer. “Namaste,” he replies. “Where are you from?” “I’m Lori, from Room to Read. In San Francisco.” A look of recognition flickers across his face. He smiles. “Room to Read? You are the official they have sent?”

He gives me a tour of the school, the headmaster’s office, everything kept under padlock; the English classes, where students stand and say, “Good morning, Miss,” when I enter; and the library, where books line shelves.

Before leaving he instructs Min and I to sit, to wait in his office. He returns with a newspaper wadded up and full of the red powder used for giving tikka, the blessing, and two silk scarves. He presses his thumb into the bright red powder then presses it first to my forehead, next to Min’s. He ties the silk scarf around each of our necks and wishes us a well journey and sends us on our way in peace.

I notice red powder dusted across my nose. Is it bad luck to wipe it off? I don’t want to take any chances. As we walk, the day grows hotter, I sweat profusely. I wipe my hand across my face. I look down and my hand is smeared with red. I’ve inadvertently smeared my good luck.

I’m staring at the path continuously, trying to keep my balance. At this rate, all I’ll see for the next 17 days are rocks and donkey manure.

Each time we cross a stream, Min goes first. I watch which rocks he steps on. I follow suit. I step carefully. I gingerly place my foot on a rock and splash! it flips over. If I’m lucky, only a foot (or two) lands in the water. More often than not, I fall. Min and Durga look at each other, concerned. They seem a bit nervous about how often I’ve fallen, especially given this is the second day of the trek.