Min knocks on my door at 5:45 am. Ugh. “Good morning,” I muster, to let him know I am awake. I dress quickly, wash my face, and pack my bag so Durga can go ahead of us and book a room at Letdar.

We set out promptly at 7. We walk through workers harvesting both golden wheat and red buckwheat. The golden patches contrast with the red, making a beautiful patchwork. As we walk, the land today becomes more barren than on previous days, grey mountains spotted with orange and red shrubs.

We arrive to Yak Karka at 10:30 am and Min announces this is where we are lodging. I am surprised. Stopping at 10:30? That’s unheard of. We have another 6 hours of trekking to do. What is he thinking? But, indeed, we are stopping. I’m not sure why.

Mark, Abby, Tobin and I feel the need to continue walking. So we do. Straight up a hill. It’s a little difficult, because there isn’t a path, we’re stumbling through prickly bushes. We look around at mountains and decide to walk on the path instead. We run into a herd of yak. We wander. We’re cold. We head back to Yak Karka, a village of a dozen buildings.

As we’re entering town, Essie, Abby’s guide, calls to us. She motions for us to join her in a small shack. We enter. It can’t be more than 10’ x 10’. A thin mattress rests in one corner. In the other is a fire cum stove. We, along with five Nepalis, sit around the fire on benches maybe three inches off the ground. The woman of the house prepares tea for us. I have no idea why we are there, but I’m happy. I’m enjoying the warmth of the fire and the bitterness of the lemon tea. We’re sitting knee to knee, laughing and talking. The woman prepares a skillet of yak curry. It smells delicious. I’m wondering if I should eat it or not. What am I thinking? Of course I should. How often do I get served yak curry in a Nepali home? Silly me.

She passes around small, very small, plates of yak curry. Not plates, per se, more like tin tea saucers. Everyone is very polite, picking one or two pieces of meat with their right hand then passing the plate to the right. It’s crazy delicious. I savor the curry, the spices, the tenderness of the meat. I want more, but am unsure of the etiquette. A Nepali asks for more. I’m glad. We pass the meat again. I’m happy. I’m content. I’m warm. I’m satisfied.

I awake to Min knocking on my door. “Didi! Wake up,” he calls. I very sleepily arouse. “Good morning, Min.” “Come! Look!” I wander out in my layers of thermals, pajamas and fleece to the front porch. There, clearly, stands Annapurna IV. Its snow capped peaks pierce a bright blue morning sky, clouds distant. “Wow…” I say. “Wow….” I wander to a ledge, still in my flip flops and pajamas and sit and stare. This is so beautiful. I’ve come to love the solitude of the mornings on this trip – no one present but me and the mountains.

On the way back to the guest house, I notice a sign nailed to a tree. It’s an arrow and painted crudely it says, “toilet.com.” The dot com craze reach never ceases to amaze me.

We walk along the ridge, an easy walk, staring at the peaks along the way, the changing colors of the leaves on the trees, orange, yellow, red; the winding river below; the occasional waterfall; the intense brightness of the morning sun shining on all of this. We pass so many stupas, and prayer wheels, and prayer flags. It seems the higher we get, the closer people feel to a higher being.

We walk, and walk, and walk. We come upon a lone restaurant. “Hungry?” Min asks. “Yes,” I say and start towards the restaurant. He hesitates. “Maybe too crowded.” I look at the 10 or so people seated on the patio enjoying food. “Where, then?” “Next restaurant. Ten minutes away.” I look, and see nothing in my immediate line of vision. “Really?” I question. :”Yes. Ten minutes.” “Okay,” I say, and we continue.

Ten minutes later I’m staring at fields of yellow wheat and red buckwheat. “Min! Where’s the restaurant?” He laughs. “Ten minutes.” I’m annoyed. I’m hungry, I’m tired, my feet hurt and I’m not my happy self. I know this and I try not to be nasty. Ten minutes later, I’m staring at a landslide and dry rocks for as far as the eye can see. “Min! Where’s the restaurant?” He laughs. “Ten minutes.” I am so annoyed. “Min!” I feel like stomping my foot and throwing down my walking stick, but I don’t. I simply keep walking, wondering how many more “ten minutes” away the restaurant is.

Twenty minutes later we arrive at the restaurant. I can’t face another plate of rice. I order a mushroom veggie burger. Two patties smothered in yak cheese, no mushrooms, no bread, arrive. I fell like a spoiled brat. I want to say, “This is NOT what I ordered,” but I don’t. I eat it and am thankful.

We arrive to Manang. We go to the guest house where Min always stays and are told there are no rooms. He speaks to some porters on the path in Nepali then turns to me. “Very crowded. No rooms. Maybe you sleep with a stranger.” I’m completely annoyed. How can there be no rooms at 2 pm in one of the larger towns on the trek? I’m tired, I don’t feel well, and I’m fighting tears. “I don’t believe you.” In his mild mannered voice, Min says, “The porter says…” I interrupt him. “How far is the next town?” “Maybe one hour.” I know this means two or three. I’m adamant. “Then we will walk. Come on.” He does not like the idea. I know he wants to stay in Manang. This is our “rest” place, where we will spend two nights to acclimatize to the altitude. I know he wants to be in the same place as his porter/guide friends. I know his brother will be coming through tomorrow with another group. I also know I want a room to sleep in. I hear him speak. “No, I think you are too tired.” “Min, I don’t care how tired I am. I want a place to sleep tonight. If we can’t find one here, we walk.” He starts to talk in Nepali with the other guides. I start walking to the next guest house. He quickly follows. There are no rooms. We go to the next guest house. I see there are rooms, based on the open padlocks on the doors. We speak to the owner. I can tell he is reluctant to rent the room; I don’t know why. He relents. It is abominable. It is dirty, the walls are cracked and there are bugs. But it is a room. I lay down on my sleeping bag and cry.

I awake to the roar of the river and roosters cock-a-doodle-dooing. I stand on my balcony, gathering my washed clothes from the evening before. I can’t tell if they are still damp, or merely cold. I look out at the massive expanse of mountain and sheer cliff in front of me. Daylight has not yet quite broken. I breathe deeply, the cold mountain air filling my lungs.

I didn’t pack a mirror with me on this trip and it’s been surprisingly liberating. I feel beautiful all of the time. I know by conventional standards, I’m not. I’m sweaty, I wear no make-up, and my hair is tied back randomly.

We begin the ascent. It appears to be endless steps and switchbacks going higher and higher. A few minutes into it and I must stop. My head is spinning and I can’t breathe. I stop at one of the switchbacks and look at the view. Pine trees, everywhere. I begin again, slowly. I make it a few steps and have to stop again. I sip some water and try to breathe deeply. I tell myself that once I get to the top I’ll have a nice long rest. Except the top never comes. I stop again, sitting on a rock, my head between my knees. Min asks if I’m okay. “Very dizzy. Need to rest.” “Oh, you see all the colors at once?” “Yes, like that.” Is this altitude sickness or simply not being properly fit to take on an 18 day trek in the Himalayas, I wonder to myself. After a good rest, lots of liquids, and a few bites of a Luna bar, we start again. With many pauses we make it to the top where Durga is waiting for us, pack laid aside. He and Min exchange words in Nepali. “Did he think we were lost?” I joked. “Yes,” Min solemnly replied.

As we walk, it begins to drizzle. Not heavy enough to be considered rain, but enough to be slightly uncomfortable. I put my raincoat on over my daypack. We walk. I’m hot. Is it better to be hot and dry or comfortable and wet? I opt for the latter. The entire day is spent putting my raincoat on during heavier sprinkles and taking it off during reprieves.

“Want to see mill?” Min asks. “Sure,” I reply. We deviate from the path, up a hill and through a thicket of trees, pausing by a small shack next to a stream. Inside work three people: an elderly grandfather who appears to be blind in one eye, and two sisters, 8 – 10 years old. The younger sister is excited to see visitors, she stops her work and comes to us, smiling. The older sister and elderly man work to solve a technical problem with the mill. Moments later, the older sister runs up the hill, releases the water, and the mill starts grinding wheat, producing a fine flour, dust fluffing. The younger sister runs in, then comes out, hand outstretched. She offers me some of the fresh flour. I taste it. It’s delicious. The wheat flavor bursts through. It literally melts in my mouth. I smile and thank her. She responds by smearing her face with the fresh flour and laughing.

Moments after placing my backpack in my room, it begins to rain. Not just rain, but downpour. I say a special prayer to the gods who have allowed me to be inside rather than out at this moment.

We are talking over a pot of tea, Marlies and Sofie, the mother and daughter from Holland. Our feet are warmed by the pot of hot coals placed under the table. Suddenly, all electricity is gone and the room goes black. The grandmother of the house scurries in with a slender white candle. She lights it and places it in between us. We continue our conversation by candlelight, sipping warm tea. To our left the young twin boys of the household, in the matching black and white striped knit hats and red shirts (a Nepali version of Where’s Waldo?) play a card game by candlelight, their heads bent intently over the game. It’s a lovely way to spend the evening.

I wake up; it is still night. I look out my window and see the most beautiful array of bright, shining stars. I want to look more, but I am so tired. I close my eyes and when I open them again it is morning.

Min loves children. “Come, look!” he beckons. I don’t want to go into the private bedroom, I feel it is disrespectful. “Come on… babies. Twins. Sleeping.” I walk in. There, wrapped in many blankets, are twin baby girls, sleeping in the middle of a double bed. We admire them then return outside to have our tea. One wakes and starts to cry. Min gathers her, rings her outside, and rocks her. Minutes later, the other wakes and begins to cry. I take the first twin while Min takes the second. She’s beautiful – large black eyes, small gold earrings, fine dark hair.

As soon as we start the trail a donkey train approaches from behind. Min, Durga, and I step to the side to allow the burros to pass on the narrow path, barely wide enough for one person. We begin walking behind them. The pace suits me fine. Not fast, not slow, just right, plodding along. The donkey herder tsks and hollers at the donkeys, occasionally throwing a stone at one at the front of the bunch, not so gently encouraging it to move faster.

I take advantage of the pace to look around me. The brilliant green of the mountains, piercing white clouds meeting blue sky. Other trekkers approach from behind. They are irritated and annoyed with the pace. A tall German passes me, then tries to overtake the donkeys, walking on the cliff side of them, motioning for his wife to follow. I look at Min. “Is that a good idea?” Seriously, he shakes his head. “No, very bad idea.”

I watch as several groups of trekkers try to overtake the donkeys, confident I’m going to bear witness to a catastrophe – a trekker being trampled, knocked off the cliff, but I don’t.

We are ascending. The trek up is actually a stream flowing down. I carefully choose rocks to step on, to avoid submerging my boots in water. After 15 minutes of this, I have to stop and rest. I breathe heavily, resting on my walking stick. I look out at the mountain. I’m in awe of the massiveness. I look up. There is no end in sight to the ascent.

Arm in arm they are coming towards me, laughing. I smile, laughing at their joy. “Pen?” they ask in unison. “No pen,” I say. “Sweet?” “No sweet. Sorry.” “Photo?” This surprises me. “Me? Take your photo?” They laugh and nod. I take a photo and show them. The cackle hysterically. “Photo!” they exclaim. I take another photo, as one is blowing a bubble with her chewing gum. She is saying something I don’t understand. “Another photo?” She says the word again. “Oh, by yourself?” She nods. I take a solo photo of her then her sister insists on one as well.

Min points to the side of the trail where a large snake lies. I’m not terrified, but have a healthy sense of fear. I look over to see the younger sister picking up a stone and throwing it at the snake. My healthy sense of fear multiplies. The stone lands, thud! And the snake doesn’t move. It’s already dead.

I am faced by another cinder block trickle of a cold shower. I am so over this part of the trip. Which doesn’t bode well; I have 14 more days of this ahead of me.

So the adventure begins. This may well be the absolute best pan de chocolate that I’ve ever tasted. I’m sitting roadside on a major thoroughfare in Kathmandu, Nepal. It’s 6:45 am and daylight has already broken. The blare of horns fills the air as cars aggressively pass each other on this rudimentary road, dust billowing. I cough as a bus adds smoky black exhaust to the dust. I take a sip of steaming hot, just sweet enough black tea. I watch women in striking read and deep green saris shuffle past, I see motorcycles eke in and out of the cars, driver wearing helmets with straps not fastened, flying in the wind. A sudden movement catches my eye. It’s Min, my guide, motioning for me to come, the bus has arrived.

It’s not a bus per se, more of a mini-van. It could comfortably hold ten passengers plus a driver; we’re already at 18 inside and 2 on the roof. I’m lucky I’m in the front row by the window. I open it wide, ignoring the fumes and exhaust. A father sits opposite me, perches on a small ledge behind the driver’s seat, his young daughter cradled on his lap. We adjust our knees so mine slant right, his left, and settle in for the 6 hour drive.

We stop again, not far from our start. I assume we’re getting fuel. I’ve assumed wrong. We’re picking up two more passengers.

A few minutes into the drive, I see the father in front of me snapping his fingers and motioning for something. “Plas-tick,” he says to the driver. Oh, no. I glance at Min, who is glancing at me and we give each other a worried look. This is going to be a long ride. The man gives a plastic bag to his wife who is sitting behind Min, and she promptly throws up.

We stop by the side of the road hours into the trip. Min guides me across the road to – a shack? a shelter? a lean to? where a couple of empty picnic tables sit. Across from me at another table sits a woman with a cleaver. She’s staring into space, cleaver upright. After a few minutes, she resumes chopping garlic. A teenage boy, perhaps her son, sits next to her, kneading dough. He forms it into a rope, then pinches off small balls. She stops chopping garlic and starts rolling out perfect circles of dough. Another male, a son? her husband? takes the perfectly formed circles and carefully fills them with a chopped garlic/vegetable/meat combination and seals them with a twist and a pinch. Perfectly formed momos, ready for steaming then eating. I watch this process until my noodles arrive. I eat, savoring the hotness, savoring the deliciousness of each bite of the small bowl.

I’ve arrived to Besisahar. I am so happy to stretch my legs, to be off of the bus. I register as a trekker with the local authorities. I’m ready to start this trek, this 18 day adventure in the Himalayas. Min guides me to a kiosk. “What’s this?” I ask. “We buy bus ticket. One hour more.” Though disappointed, I don’t argue. We board the school bus cum community bus, complete with brightly painted renditions of Jim Morrison.

I’m sandwiched in seat 7, at the back of the bus, by the window. The Nepali men in front of me recline their seats. Or maybe that’s just how the seats are, permanently reclined. My knees push into the seat back. My day pack rests on my knees. There is a ladder covering my window. The aisle is filling, with people, with bags, with huge milk containers. It is at this moment I realize I am claustrophobic, at least right now. I tap Min on the shoulder and motion with my hands. “I need to stand up. Now.” He hears the concern in my voice and moves, allowing me to stand in the aisle. It is enough. I don’t feel completely trapped anymore. “Problem?” he asks. “Um.” How do I explain claustrophobia to someone who lives with ridiculous crowds everyday? “Um. It’s just a little crowded. Okay now.” We start the ride. Bump, bump, bump. There are several times the bus sways this way and that, perilously close to overturning. Waves of panic flood over me. If the bus overturns, could we all escape? Could any of us? I remind myself I’m on vacation.

After an hour or so, the bus stops. Once I begin to walk, I feel as though I’ve started my vacation. We all walk. Me, Min, and Durga, my porter. Guilt floods over me. I’ve packed too much. I watch Durga with my large blue backpack, his small orange one strapped on top. He’s walking in flip flops. Flip flops! I’m having a difficult time navigating the stones and creeks in proper hiking shoes. And he’s doing just fine.

After dinner, Min informs me there will be a cultural program. I’m confused. I’m staying at a “guest house” in the middle of a field. The guest house is sheet metal crudely assembled with dirt floors. Sure enough, village women come and gather on the grass in a semi-circle cluster. Laughter and cackles fill the air. I’m mesmerized by their dark hair hanging in thick plaits down their backs, red ribbons intertwined. Various pieces of jewelry adorn them, earrings and nose jewelry of varying sizes: small gold studs, gold rings, gold chains that loop back to the other side. One begins a nasally chant, the others join. A drum beats. One woman is pushed to her feet, to the center of the group. She begins a dance, twirling clockwise, ankle bells jingling. Her arms are extended, gracefully undulating with the voices of the women. This continues, the same song, different women dancing, for hours. The women pull us, the trekkers, into the circle, one by one, encouraging us to dance to their chant, the chant of dreaming happy dreams of wishes coming true.

I sit down. The chanting continues. I smile at a little boy, watching from the edge of the circle. He grins a toothless smile and sidles up next to me on the picnic bench. We clap to the beat and his friend joins us. Soon five little boys are clamoring for space next to me on the picnic bench. I laugh at their antics and we continue to sing and clap. The group leaves and I head for bed, very happy on this first day of vacation.