Four Months On The Road, Still Learning

Sitting in the crummy departures lounge at Kathmandu airport’s international terminal, I felt genuinely sad to be leaving. My sister points out this is a good thing; wanting to stay or return is generally better than fleeing and not looking back.

Four months a few days ago I left Vermont, and two months in Nepal was long enough that I’m having culture shock here in Vietnam. Credit cards? Nice cars on fast roads? Skyscrapers and swimming pools? Christmas music playing in every store? What the hell kind of country is this?!​

​Vietnam has always been my planned final stop for this travel stint, owing to the fact that one of my oldest friends lives here now - and how could I come all the way across Asia without stopping here to see Katy? 

So that’s one thing I learned the hard way: there’s no easy way to get from Kathmandu to Ho Chi Minh City. 

But the effort was worth it! Katy has been in HCMC since March, teaching English and learning the ropes of expat life in Vietnam. She exemplifies the spirit of deciding to try something unusual and just diving in and sorting out the details as you go. I love and respect this deeply. And I remain in awe of the long days she spends commuting among a half-dozen teaching jobs while also studying for her license. I bow down!

Thanks to Katy, I also learned how to hail a motorbike taxi (super awesome app for that), and thanks to Kathmandu I learned to walk directly across the street while threading through a fleet of said motorbikes. 

I learned in HCMC that acupuncture feels really weird. I’m glad I tried it, but my skepticism remains intact.

I learned from painful photography in the War Remnants Museum how devastating the “American War” was in Vietnam, and continues to be due to the lasting damage of chemical weapons and landmines. My loose conception of the Vietnam War being a series of terrible decisions that ground up unwilling soldiers is now shifted dramatically to include the surreal and terrifying civilian ​experience here.

In the coastal town of Hoi An, I learned that sometimes it’s pretty great to give in to the lure of a tourist town. Lanterns! Waterfront restaurants! Historic tours that end in souvenir shops!  it was extremely charming, all of it.

And lastly, in Vietnam I have relearned the wisdom of John Steinbeck’s observation that a trip has a life of its own. A trip starts well before you depart, and sometimes it’s over before you get home. Christmas music is indeed everywhere here (this still surprises me!) and I’m counting down the days and hours till I fly home to San Diego, with gratitude for the time I’ve had abroad — and already with ideas of where to go next.

Election Day In Nepal

Four months ago I left Vermont, two months ago I arrived in Nepal, four days ago the country finished voting for a new parliament and two days ago I had a sideline view of the international community’s initial take on how those elections went.

When I left home to travel, I trusted that I would find interesting projects and opportunities that I couldn’t then conceive of. I came to Nepal wanting to trek in the mountains and having a vague idea to volunteer for something worthwhile. I’ve spent the last 10 days helping The Carter Center’s Election Observation Mission here, an inspiring and fulfilling end (for now) to my visit in Nepal.

I’m a raving sentimentalist when it comes to elections, and civics, and democracy. I can recite most of Mr. Smith Goes To Washington by heart, and I still get misty when Jimmy Stewart declares that “democracy is too precious a thing to buried in history books.” Being an American journalist and covering U.S. elections has not dulled my faith in the potential of democracy, but I have been disappointed in how fecklessly some Americans regard the act of governing, and the process by which we choose our government. It matters, and we shouldn’t let ourselves off the hook by pretending “they’re all the same” and “my vote doesn’t matter.”

Nepal’s politics are impossibly complex, and its  recent political history is straight up astounding. Kings and prime ministers sacked, a civil war with a Maoist insurgency, the assassination of nearly the whole royal family by one of its own, a new constitution and a nationwide learning curve to determine what Nepal’s new democratic norms will be. And the consequences of governance here are crucial: Nepal faces real problems in economic, health and social indicators. 

Diagram explains how the polling place is set up for voters to cast three separate ballots. 

I am naive enough and optimistic enough, therefore, to draw real inspiration from how Nepalese people embraced their election.  

Nepal had 70 percent voter turnout in its recent parliamentary and provincial elections.

Seventy percent.

They did this with no absentee voting, no mail-in voting, no early voting. They did this by walking (sometimes very long distances) to stand in line and cast their votes. They did this despite a confusing electoral system that voters had to learn for the first time. They did this despite weeks of IED attacks on candidates and political rallies, presumably intended to suppress voter turnout. Time will tell us Nepalese people are satisfied with the government they elected, but I remain inspired and impressed with the urgency and commitment they showed in showing up to vote.

I wish Americans didn’t take our system of government for granted, or fail to see our own responsibility in making it work.

Newspapers for sale, the day before the election.

Nepal Trek 4: Annapurna Base Camp

Way back in my first week of trekking, Adam the Australian knew I was heading to the Annapurnas eventually and repeatedly described how much he liked the Annapurna Base Camp trek, his voice turning soft and wistful at the memory. On his recommendation, I was able to arrange my last week in this region to fit in a fast trek up to "ABC."

ABC is a straightforward out-and-back trek with a half-dozen settlements along the way, starting at an elevation of 324 meters/1,070 feet, and topping out at base camp at 4,100 meters/13,550 feet. Guide books recommend 10 days; I did it in five, and I met a elderly Swiss man who ran it in three days! (He's lived in Nepal on and off his entire adult life and this was his twenty-fifth time trekking ABC.)

Mood

I recognized even at the time that I was on autopilot. I had been trekking in the mountains for five weeks at this point, and this would be the easiest and shortest hike I'd do since starting out. I liked the rhythm of waking up early, walking all day, eating dal bhat in the evening and falling sleep early. But my appreciation for my surroundings was getting crowded out by a compulsion to walk as fast and far as I could every day. My fitness and acclimatization made this very, very easy to do, even while I made a feeble effort at asking myself, what's the hurry?

ABC draws a lot of first-time hikers who are looking for great views without the punishment of high, high altitude. By contrast, I was ripping down the trail at a pace that made the guides and porters look at me funny.

Day 1:

I took a jumpy, uncomfortable bus ride from Tatopani sandwiched in the back seat with five teenage boys who shared their oranges with me, arriving in Naya Pul in the afternoon. I got a Jeep ride into the Annapurna Sanctuary, up to the end of the road and the start of the trail and hiked a few hours to New Bridge. (Truly, the new metal suspension bridge is so much nicer and way more secure than the old wooden plank bridge.)

Day 2:

Still at low and lush elevation, I hiked up and down over foothills and river valleys through Jhinudanda to Chhomrong, through Sinuwa, then Bamboo, Dovan and finally stopping at Himalayan Hotel (not an actual hotel, just three lodges tucked together on a trail). Chhomrong is lovely settlement of lodges, cafes and places to buy supplies, scattered up and down a hillside that looks up the river valley to the mountains. Lots of steep stone pathways run through town, I took one of them a little further off trail than I meant to. I was sitting at small clearing looking at my map and eating snack when a teenager came through carrying a massive load of branches on her back and head. I offered her water, and she looked at pictures on my phone while we took a break in the shade. We didn't have any language in common, but it was easy to deduce that a white person is a trekker and asked me, "ABC?" Then we shared a chocolate bar and she led me back up the stone path to the right trail.

From Sinuwa on, the trail ascends steadily through one river valley heading both north and higher in altitude. Vegetation starts to change and the landscape feels less like a jungle forest, and more like a mountain climate. At Himalayan Hotel, I met an awesome group of solo travelers over dinner and got a bed in dorm room with 5 guys each from different countries. It felt like being at camp, all of us in our tiny beds laughing and telling stories as we fell asleep.

Day 3:

Ascent! I trekked through Deurali up to Machhapuchhre Base Camp (MBC), where I warmed up with soup and wardrobe adjustment and reunited with two of the people I'd met the night before. From MBC, the altitude started to impact my speed and breathing, all the trees had long since disappeared, and I walked up the last rocky beautiful valley with the mass of Annapurna I directly in sight. Base camp is a few lodges at the edge of massive receding glacier. Staring you in the face is the expansive steep wall of the Annapurnas, and all around you the prayer flags stretching among memorials to dead mountain climbers are snapping loudly in the wind.

After a bowl of warm lentils at base camp, I walked back down to MBC, back through Deurali and Himalayan Hotel, and stopped at Doban just at sunset and right before a rainstorm parked itself for the night. On my way to Deurali, I stumbled hard and came away with scrapes on my forehead and nose, giving me plenty of opportunity to wonder again why I was hurrying so much. At Dovan, all the lodges were full but an incredibly nice woman from the UK shared her room with me and I fell asleep with Neosporin on my nose, listening to rain pound the metal roof.

Day 4:

Thanksgiving Day. Over breakfast with a British woman, a Chinese man and two Nepalese men, i told them it was Thanksgiving in America and they enthusiastically launched into a discussion of Black Friday. Horrified, I tried to explain that's not what Thanksgiving is about but they were more interested in how stores coerce people into lining up on a holiday. "I wouldn't wait in line at midnight for anything," the British woman said. "Unless it was a kidney I needed,  guess."

I cruised back through Bamboo, revisiting the spot where I had encountered a black-faced langur two days earlier, and hearing the monkey-like animals jumping and swinging through trees all around me. In Chhomrong, I stopped for a real cup of coffee and a real piece of pie at a really fake German bakery. I was back in the terrain of climbing up and down from one river valley into the next, headed through Jhinudanda, back to New Bridge. I had hiked into the region on the west side of the river, but at New Bridge I crossed over to the east side to walk southeast toward the town of Phedi and the road the Pokhara. The late afternoon took me through Landruk and Tolka, where I encountered a final, short wooden suspension bridge that was the worst-looking bridge I had encountered. I stared at it for awhile, contemplated the map, complained out loud, "Seriously?!" to absolutely no one, and then I just went for it. I felt relief stepping onto the stone at the far side. Thanksgiving dinner that night was dal bhat with a woman from Poland, and something approximating apple pie.

Day 5:

Just a few short hours up and over to Dhampus, and down into Phedi. As I walked, the jungly warm feeling of the lowlands was back in force, and way more people were on the trail. Trekkers who were just starting out from Phedi told us that the upcoming election had prompted a transportation strike and no buses were running between Phedi and Pokhara. Damn. I was little worried about this would shake out, but as soon as I reached the trailhead, there was a car parked with two big backpacks leaning against it. Moments later, two trekkers from Turkey and their driver walked up, and easily agreed to let me split the fare with them back to Pokhara.

Thanksgiving was a meaningful coincidence with my last night of trekking. Despite my hurry and impatience on this final trek, I was also full of appreciation for the people I had met on the trail, the bracing weather and scenery and the physicality of the effort.

[Annapurna Base Camp: November 20-24, 2017]

One Bad Day

Starting out from my lodge in Jharkot, reliable guides pointed across the horse pastures and rock-walled fields to a white house on other side of the small valley. From there, a trail was visible climbing over the bare hill to the next valley, down to the town of Lubra. I was contemplating whether this would be the last day of hiking on the Annapurna Circuit Trek, and the weather was perfect for the half-day walk to Jomson.

Just getting to the trailhead was a more time-consuming walk than I expected, dead-ending at rock walls and icy streams. I scaled one wall and dodged across a pasture to finally reach the white house, at which point the trail that looked so obvious at a distance was hard to find. I started climbing up the hillside without the trail, figuring I could find it with the benefit of a high perch. From above, there were many, many trail laced through the low brush, so I chose one that seemed to go in the right direction and started walking. A well-marked trail junction finally confirmed that I was now exactly where I wanted to be, and I was rewarded with a view that was stupendous: in every direction barren brown hills in the foreground where overpowered by massive white jagged peaks of the Mustang Valley in the distance. I ran-walked down the trail full of energy from the gorgeous landscape and the knowledge that I was back on trail. And then in my distracted glee, I completely took a wrong turn, missing the trail to the village of Lubra and heading instead toward a lonely promontory that overlooked a flat desert plain. I consulted my map and the landscape. The open expanses made it easy to realize where I was; I just wasn't where I wanted to be.

Aye yi yi.

My options were to 1) go back uphill to the trail I missed and enter Lubra from the north as I planned; 2) continue east across this plain to the village of Ekle Bhattee and then head south to Jomsom on the Jeep road, a route I had vetoed as unpleasant when I first planned this day; or 3) follow the narrow black line on my map down  a little-used local trail that would eventually deposit me just south of Lubra, but on the trail to Jomsom that I had inadvertently left.

I took Door #3, and after the first easy minutes of the walk, I disliked this trail strongly. When the flat plain gave way to a steep descent, the trail was dodgy with loose sand and gravel and an forgiving slide down several hundred feet if I misstepped. I paused several times to consider if continuing down was still a better choice than retracing my steps back up. "Wow. You have really made some interesting decisions today," I said aloud to myself, partly to defuse my nerves and partly to pierce the punishing quiet.

Once the bridge came into view, I felt a little easier. Now I just had to get to it.

Dry gravel sliding underfoot, I finally edged myself down to the head of the suspension bridge. I bandaged the scrapes and cuts on my hand that were the only, blessed reminder of a spill on my way down and took a moment to assess the bridge's ominous length and height. Earlier in the descent, I had spotted a trio of people walking down this riverbed but now not a soul was visible up and down the massive rocky valley. I walked across the bridge with more trepidation than I had ever felt on one of these ubiquitous spans; its lack of use removed the usual reassurance, "people and yaks cross this all the time!" The clanging metal footbed and natural sway of the bridge had me taking deep breaths and walking quickly. I stepped off the bridge onto firm stone at the far end with a massive sense of relief, and a painted trail sign on the rock greeted me with good news: Jomson was a just a couple of hours away.

Panorama of the Panda Kola.

Jomsom, heck yes! 

I worked my way down to the Panda Kola river to follow the path I'd see others taking from high above. This wide, rocky riverbed joined the wider, dustier Kali Gandaki Nadi river not far from here. The thin veins of water that run across these rock fields hardly seem able to carve the deep, wide canyons above them. Despite the rocks and dust, the flat exposure of these riverbottoms makes them the preferred path of travel for trekkers, vehicles and animals alike. The roads that trekkers had bemoaned as "ruining" the Annapurnas were back, if riverbeds counted as roads. Walking on the rounded, uneven rocks was exhausting and annoying, and soon turned worse: joining the Kali Gandaki Nadi, I turned south into a massive wind tunnel that shot sand and debris at my face and added serious effort to the act of walking forward. The few trekkers on this stretch who hadn't hailed Jeeps from Muktinath to Jomsom were walking directly into stiff, sand-filled wind, alongside buses and Jeeps that kicked up even more dust. For the first time in weeks of trekking, I could sense cracks opening in my tenacity and a bitter dislike of the challenge seeping in. The astonishing mountain views of the Mustang towered on the horizon, and I struggled at moments to appreciate them.

Kali Gandaki Nadi "river" bed.

Eventually I could see Jomsom ahead, and I was still debating whether to stop here or keep going. Just at the edge of Jomsom the river swelled with water, forcing trekkers and trucks out of the riverbed and onto a road. Tired, annoyed and distracted, I picked my way out of the riverbed, surrounded by rivulets. I climbed onto a shaded, grassy bank and noticed a woman doing laundry 50 feet above at a spring. I stepped gingerly onto a tire that was halfway across the sodden patch of grass. As I shifted my weight from one leg to the other, I realized the tire was afloat, and it flipped over sending me straight into the marsh. Splashing nearly up to my waist, I unleashed a volley of hostile sounds that approximated language. My pack weighing me down, I threw my arms forward grasping for solid ground, inadvertently slamming the water bottle I held in my hand against a rock. I slithered out of the cold liquid muck and assessed: I was soaked in mud up to my hips, my shoes were leaden weights of muck, all of it smelled vaguely offensive, and an angry crack in my water bottle was releasing a stream of water with a nonchalance that offered an unwelcome commentary the tableau. I walked, defeated, into town.

Downtown Jomsom.

Jomson's position as the administrative center of the region means the dusty street through town has not only trekking lodges, but actual hotels, bakeries, an air strip with service to Pokhara and even an ATM that occasionally worked. As I walked through town evaluating my options, a German trekker walked with me and pointed out a coffee house that served cappuccino. I had thought I would eschew the luxuries of Jomson, but a sign offering laundry service outside a hotel pretty much made the decision for me. I was aghast at the $15/night cost for the hotel room, but a big bed with a featherdown duvet and private bathroom with intermittent hot water was a pretty great salve for my bruised ego.

The morning had started with such promise, and in the intervening six hours I had climbed through walled fields, walked off-trail up a hillside, picked the wrong trail down a steep precipice to a bridge that worried me, trudged headlong into a scouring wind tunnel, and finally, unceremoniously, fell deep into a fetid, soupy marsh.  It was only mid-afternoon, but I was done.

The day was littered with mistakes born of distraction, regrettable decisions and unpleasant conditions. This would serve as the ignominious final day of my Annapurna Circuit Trek. But Type 2 fun!

Photo taken during the twenty minutes when everything was great.

Nepal Trek 3: Annapurna Circuit

"Ugh, the roads! Annapurna isn't the same as it used to be." Variations on this statement had me questioning whether traveling out to Pokhara for this trek was worth it. But if roads are encroaching on what has been called one on the world's most classic hiking trails, then I better go now before it gets worse, I figured. Plus, I can't begrudge people in this region wanting to build roads and infrastructure. It's a bit precious to prioritize a nice walk for tourists over quality of life for locals.

The circuit is a horseshoe-shaped arc that starts east of Pokhara at Besi Sahar, travels counter-clockwise (advisably) through river valleys, climbs one high altitude pass at Thorung La, runs down through the Mustang Valley and around to the foothills west of Pokhara. Already acclimatized, I was able to cut out the rest days and I modified my start and end points, all of which made this trek faster than expected -- just nine days.

The Route

From Besi Sahar, I followed advice to take a Jeep up to Syange (1,211 meters/3,996 feet) and stayed my first night there. From Syange, my overnights were at Dharapani, Chame, Ngawal, Manag (two nights), Yak Kharka, Thorung Phedi, over the high pass of Thorung La (5,416 meters/17,872 feet) during the day and down to Jharkot, and then finishing in Jomson.

The trail traces the bank of the Marsyangdi Nadi river from Besi Sahar all the way to Manang. While the river is your constant companion, the shape and current of the water changes constantly, along with the vegetation. I was stunned to see wild poinsettias flowering on trees in the early, low elevation days of the trek; apparently I thought they only grew in plastic pots at grocery stores between Dec 10-25. After a few days the elevation barely scratched 2,000 meters (6,600 feet), making for warm days and fast trekking. The walk through an autumnal woods and a valley filled with apple trees near Timang made me nostalgic for Vermont. Just beyond there, nearing Chame, we emerged around a bend in the trail and the mass of Annapurna II was directly in sight. These are definitely not Vermont's Green Mountains!

This was the stretch of trail where I met Mathilde, and later Tavis, Florianne, Kinga, Mike, Adam and Selena, cheerful and easy trail companions all. We hiked together from below Chame to Upper Pisang, and then I continued solo that day to Ngawal, a long, satisfying day that finally put me at a respectable elevation, 3,660 meters/12,078 feet.

From Ngawal, I had an easy, short walk to Manang, the Namche of the Annapurnas. Here, they recommend you stay put to acclimatize for a few days, stock up on supplies and prepare for the high altitude that comes next. I stayed two nights so I could take in a movie (!), check out the political campaigning ahead of the parliamentary elections and do my laundry. I had my blood oxygen tested at the Himalayan Rescue Association and it was an impressive 92 percent, so I sped out of there and up to Yak Kharka after a day and half.

Manang is full of "video projection halls," a fun cottage industry in town that doesn't offer much else in the way of distraction. A Slovak couple and I caught the 5 p.m. showing of Seven Years In Tibet; the wooden benches had yak furs to keep us  warm, and the projectionist lit the yak dung stove too. (Lighting the stove is the most expensive part of the operation for the projection hall.) Halfway through the film, a woman brought in popcorn and hot tea for us. Delightful!

Above Manang, the landscape changes dramatically again and the trek starts to feel like a TREK. Vegetation disappears, the brown, barren mountains in the foreground are lit up with crisp, snow-covered peaks in the distance. Yaks meander down the trail, the dull but cheerful sound of their bells announcing their approach. Here the trail has turned north along the Thorung Kola and Kone Kola rivers, tiny threads of water at the bottom of impressively carved valleys.

Looking south down the Kone Kola river valley, the section of trail between Letdar and Thorung Phedi.

Thorung La is the high pass on this trek, and the options for accommodation just before making this ascent are few. Thorung Phedi is a cluster of noisy lodges, and further along is High Camp, essentially one noisy lodge. I lucked into the last room at small quiet lodge in Thorung Phedi, on the hill overlooking the rest of the guesthouses. A dozen of us huddled around the stove with cups of milk tea and compared notes on how early we planned to start the ascent.

In the pre-dawn morning, light, dry snowflakes floated in the dark air and I could see a dotted line of headlamps snaking up the mountain trail behind the guesthouse. Their 4 a.m. departure seemed pointlessly early and I waited till first light. I had the benefit of weeks of conditioning and acclimatization, and my climb up to the high pass was fairly easy and speedy. I had expected it might be, but it seemed unwise to presume too much at 17,800 feet.

Maps describe this as "biggest" mountain pass in the world, I think because it's extremely broad and the flanks on both sides of the pass extend far out. In Three Passes, a sharp knife-edge defined each pass with steep ascent and decent on both sides. This was more of an enormous saddle.

At the top, the signpost is swaddled in bright prayer flags and swarmed with trekkers seeking a quick photo in the windy cold exposure of the pass. Joining the group of trekkers at the top, I heard a British voice calling my name: Stu! We had first met weeks ago on the hike from Jiri to Lukla, on the evening after Andy and I got lost in Bupsa. I had last seen Stu on Three Passes, the night before the first pass when he was expressing extreme dread that he was not cut out for this. And now here he was -- having finished Three Passes he kept going, and now we stood at the top of Thorung La! Stu offered me a celebratory sip of his beer (17,000 feet, 9:30 a.m., drinking a beer - this is definitely not the stressed out Stu I met in Chhukung!) and we toasted the chances of meeting up again precisely at this spot. Fantastic!

The 10 kilometer/6 mile decent toward Muktinath and Mustang Valley was long, barren and deceptively tricky. Along the way were bad weather shelters, the fierce blue of their tin sheaths providing a shot of color against the dun-hued landscape. A porter told me these were built after the disastrous 2014 trekking season when a snow storm stranded and killed 43 people on this section of trail. Even in good trekking weather like today, it's easy to see how few options for escape or natural shelter there are on this long, exposed slope; guidebooks everywhere are full warnings to check the weather conditions with reliable locals before attempting this section of trail.

Muktinath offers a celebratory oasis to trekkers coming down from the pass -- bars, hotels, restaurants, a LOT of white people. The vibe of partying backpackers who were a little too impressed with themselves was jarring after a long string of peaceful days in the mountains. I checked in quickly at the TIMS station and kept walking to the village of Jharkot, another half-hour down the road. A nice lodge with hot showers, and the company of a small group of French trekkers made for a good end to the hardest day of the trek. The sun dip below the mountain ridge, and herders brought cows in from the small nearby fields, their bells clanging and hooves clomping as they moved down the narrow stone alley next to our lodge. As we ate our dal bhat dinner, the lodge-owner lit a metal bucket of coals on fire and nudged it under the wooden table where we were eating. Defying the odds but clearly in line with the proprietor's expectations, the table did not catch on fire, and our feet and legs were toasty warm as the temperature dropped outside. Another item added to the list of "Things We Don't Do In America." (Or in France, I was assured.)

The next day was my last on this trek, ending in Jomson. I had debated how to use the time I had left in the region and realized I could either finish walking the low foothill sections of the Circuit Trek, or take a bus to Naya Pul and get in one more trek to Annapurna Base Camp. The hours walking to Jomsom proved to be the most annoying, and most filled with self-inflicted problems of any hours I would spend in the Himalaya, but they could not dull the satisfaction and joy of hiking in this region.

[Annapurna Circuit Trek: November 10-18, 2017]

Is This Safe?

“You’re hiking alone? No guide or porter? Good lord, is that safe?!” Imagine this in a Scottish accent, being spoken out of concern by a woman nearing my mom’s age. In fact, these are words my mom has thought and spoken aloud, minus the accent.

My answer without pause is yes, it’s safe. I feel no risk of personal safety from theft or assault, from marauding animals or political vigilantes. “It’s totally safe here!” I have declared repeatedly. And it is. But that feeling of safety comes not only from helpful strangers looking out for each other, but also from knowing and mitigating the risks that do exist.

Altitude sickness

"You have altitude sickness until proven otherwise."

"Many in the burgeoning adventure travel industry are clueless about mountain sickness," the Himalayan Rescue Association writes on its web site. This is no joke. AMS (Acute Mountain Sickness), HACE (High Altitude Cerebral Edema) and HAPE (High Altitude Pulmonary Edema) are problems that everyone trekking in the Himalaya needs to understand and be ready to diagnose – in themselves and in others. Symptoms like breathlessness and headache are pretty normal to experience at high altitude, but they can progress to something much worse, including coma and death. Knowledge is key here, and so is a willingness to curb your ego and cut your trek short. Spend a day hiking at altitude in Everest or Annapurna and you will 1) feel the effect on your breathing and perceived physical exertion, and 2) see rescue helicopters coming and going across the sky.

Injury

My first aid and medical kit was overstuffed with useful bandages, tape and medicine, most of which I never needed but freely doled out to other trekkers. Again, I think preparation ensured that the supplies would largely go unused. There was one day, though, when I literally fell on my face. My legs were tired, my mind was tired, and when I tripped on a rock my nose and forehead broke my fall. Stunned but lucid, I pulled myself into a seated position and felt my face. There was a little bit of blood on the bridge of my nose, but not a lot. A half-hour later, I got to a teahouse and used their outdoor spigot to clean myself up. My face was streaked with dirt and the scrapes on my nose and forehead were noticeable but not terrible. I opened the med kit and found antiseptic wipes, Neosporin and Band-Aids and did an admirable job bandaging myself up, then kept walking walking for another hour before ending the day at sunset. Moral of the story, even when you fall on your face, remember that the damage could be far, far worse.

About dangerous animals…

In six weeks of trekking, I had exactly one encounter with an animal that had me worried. I mostly restrained myself from playing with adorable but filthy stray dogs and cats, I never saw snakes or menacing insects and the legendary snow leopard did not wander near. But one afternoon, alone on a trail, I looked up to find myself nearly face-to-face with a black-faced langur. I stopped short and took in the monkey-like animal 15 feet ahead of me. He sat still right in the center of the trail, and then continued grabbing at leaves with his long-fingered paws. I stood still, too, took pictures and wondered, how is this going to end? The langur started toward me, my perception of his size and strength growing exponentially as he came nearer. I wasn’t sure if I should move aside (would that indicate weakness and encourage him to pounce?) or try to scare him away (and thus provoke a fight?) but in the seconds I had to consider my options, he ran-hopped-lurched toward me and then past me, as eager as I was to create distance between us. After that, I made an effort to whistle and sing occasionally, to ward off any unsuspecting primates on the trail.

Trail conditions

Read through the descriptions of trekking routes and study the maps, and certain phrases will jump out at you. Phrases like, "landslide," "avalanche" and "Warning - Unstable Scree Slopes." What made me increasingly hesitant the longer I trekked wasn't the trail itself but the frequent bridges. The aluminum suspension bridges were solid, no problem there. (I mean, if a team of yaks can cross it, surely one more tourist won't be the breaking point.) But I encountered plenty of streams and eroded sections of trail that were spanned with logs and rocks in a manner that did not always inspire confidence. Usually, the only way out was through, so I learned to trust the trail but to step carefully.

Random stuff

Light 'em up!

Every day, I encounter things that would send US regulators into a frenzy of preventative rule-writing. For instance, in nearly every guesthouse, the doors have slide locks on both the inside and the outside, so you could -- if you wanted to -- easily lock someone inside their room without a method of escape. Another example: at one chilly guesthouse, the owner lit a metal bucket of coals on fire and placed it under the wooden table we were eating at, to keep our feet warm. (Nothing went up in flames, and it was fantastically warm, but.....). Guardrails are nonexistent on roads that cling to the sides of cliffs, though occasionally there are large blocks of rock that help set a barrier. My first car ride in the frenetic streets of Kathmandu, when I was encouraged to take the front seat, I asked if there was a seat belt. "Welcome to Nepal!" the guy shrugged and smiled, as if that answered the question.

***

Perceptions of safety can often be confused with familiarity. I'm reminded of a friend who lives in the country and who says she always feel safer in the woods than in a big city. I think most city people would feel vulnerable if they were cast out into the rural woods, and they feel safer amidst buildings and businesses and people. We operate with confidence in environments that we know; but just because you're in a new or foreign place, doesn't mean the experience is inherently unsafe or risky, and preparation and acquired knowledge makes it all the safer.

What have we learned, now?

Seriously, look at these guys work. A hundred feet of air between the bridge deck and the water, and they're basically playing hokey-pokey while carrying untold weight.

Three months into my semi-permanent vacation, I’m making this monthly check-in a variation on the theme: these are things I knew already, but in the last month I’ve noticed them more sharply than before.

• My strengths:  tenacity, endurance.
• My weaknesses:  staying on the correct trail, wayfinding generally.
• I love, love, love my family and friends and their easy, generous, spirited enthusiasm for my oddball, unusual goals. Life is less lonely when you’ve got a tribe cheering you on, and I’ve had that and more throughout this trip. Thank you for the steady stream of encouragement from home, it’s been invaluable.
• Porters  are badasses.  Seriously, these guys are so strong. They carry unimaginably heavy loads over difficult trails and across narrow bridges, uncomplaining and often smiling. I’m amazed every time they make the effort to unleash a joyful, “Namaste!” Were I they, my utterance would be closer to, “Get the hell out of my way….”
• Dal bhat is the best! Rice, curried vegetables and lentil soup, served on a tray with a crispy bit of papadam, this is the ideal nutrition for long days of hiking, and generous seconds make it the best deal on the guesthouse menu. 24-hour dal bhat power.
• Everywhere in Nepal I’ve observed the easy kindness of strangers, and it makes smile and feel glad to be alive in the world. Sharing water with thirsty people on the trail, congratulating people on reaching the top of a climb, making space for everyone around the fire. There is an interest in communal well-being and kindness that softens the severe environment we’re trekking through.

Nepal Trek 2: Three Passes, Everest

The blocky, triangular mass of Mount Everest sits on the Nepal-Tibet border reaching (8,848 meters/29,029 feet) and adds a few centimeters to its height each year. The Nepalese name Sagarmatha and the Tibetan name Chomolungma are lesser known, but the one singular fact of this peak is universally famous: this is the highest mountain on the planet.

So no, obviously I didn't climb Everest. Let's be clear about that.

Surrounding Everest are dramatic Himalayan peaks, many of them more beautiful but that just didn't have the ambition to stretch a few meters higher to grab the title. Nuptse, Lhotse, Ama Dablam, Pumori fill the sky with twisting peaks and serrated edges. To hike among these peaks in the Everest region means crossing from one deep glacial valley through a cut in the mountains and tumbling down into the next valley, and so on. The mountaintops are out of reach without mountaineering equipment, expertise and a death wish, but the high passes are accessible to hikers who are willing to work for it.

The Three Passes trek is a massive loop that encircles the Everest region, taking you up and over three extremely high mountain passes: Kongma La (5535 meters/18,265 feet), Cho La (5380 meters/17,754 feet) and Renjo La (5388 meters/17,780 feet). And while these were the highest heights I climbed, it's interesting to remember that they are the low spots in their respective ridgelines; each pass was a small sag in the rock face, the "easiest" way to get to the other side of the mountains.

The Route

We started from Phakding and our first overnight was up the trail from Namche Bazaar at Khyangjuma, then I spent two nights at Tengboche for acclimatization, one night at Dingboche, two nights at Chhukung for more acclimatization before taking on the first of the passes. From Chhukung, we tackled the first pass, Kongma La, and stayed in Lobuche for two nights; from Lobuche I did a day hike up to Gorak Shep and up Kalapatthar (meters/feet) for spectacular views of Everest; next we climbed the second pass, Cho La and then stayed in Gokyo for two nights. After Gokya, we climbed the third and final pass, Renjo La and then walked down the valley all the way south to Thame Teng. The final day was a lazy walk back to Namche Bazaar to finish the circuit.

Namche Bazaar is a commercialized carnival of trekking supply stores, western restaurants and guesthouses. But this last-chance town on the Everest frontier also sits in a grand natural amphitheater that deserves to be appreciated. In Namche, you can buy airline tickets, indulge in chocolate cake and cappuccino, tap into free WiFi and load up on any supplies you forget to pack -- from toilet paper to trekking poles. I skipped the poles, actually, but I did rent a down sleeping bag in Namche. 

Sunrise at Tengboche, Days 3-4. The knobby peak of Ama Dablam on the right was my favorite mountain in this part of the trek - people describe it as a "thumb" that sticks up, somewhat apart from the other high peaks. 

During an acclimatization and rest day here, I spent a few hours at the Tengboche monastery watching the monks pray. Horns, drums and chanting are the soundtrack of worship here, and it's a booming joyous noise that stays just on this side of cacophony. During the service, the monks walked a khora around the outside of the monastery, and elderly monk who stayed behind gave me a friendly nod of permission to walk with them.

Leaving Dingboche on Day 5, looking back at town from the stone walled fields. The trees have now disappeared at this altitude, but yaks still graze here on grass and scrubby shrubs. At Dingboche, we met a Tibetan guesthouse operator name Takshi Lama, who totally charmed us with his curious, quick sense of humor, ruminations on life and delicious apple cake.

Chhukung is a tiny smear of a village, just a handful of guesthouses for trekkers and not much else. On the map, it looks like a slight detour from the counter-clockwise circle of the Three Passes Trek, but it serves a solid purpose in giving people good exposure to high altitude. We spent two nights here, and during the "rest day" climbed the nearby hill of Chhukung Ri (5,550 meters/18,209 feet), my first time hiking at altitude! Climbing up was a slow slog, the smallest effort of walking 20 feet forced me to stop and catch my breath. This would be become a familiar experience over the next several days.

First Pass: Kongma La (5535 meters/18,265 feet)

My journal entry for this day begins, "Holy hell, this was much harder than I expected...." We set out at 7 a.m., walking into some fog that made it hard to find the trail. After walking off-trail up the side of a steep hill, we joined the actual trail headed up a valley toward the pass. The topography tricks you here, with false peaks and blind curves. One uphill section was particularly rough: tight, steep switchbacks through deep shards of rock. Sliding feet, off-balance, and long hard way to fall if something goes wrong. Getting through that section was a relief, but we were still far below the actual pass. The trail provided a respite with an even walk among a few bright blue-green ponds before the real test presented itself. The passes are crowned with multi-colored prayer flags, and spotting those flags was an awesome relief. One last stiff climb over boulders and rock face and we were at the top! The views back down the valley were stunning, and now we could also look west to take in the terrain we had to descend.

The descent was a bit ugly. The western slope of Kongma La is a nasty, steep scree field of jagged rocks. There is a trail, but rather than a single-track of exposed dirt it's a barely discernible thread of compacted rock that slides underfoot. Eventually, this gave way to actual ground, and we walked happily, naively up to the sidewall of the day's final challenge: we had to climb up into and across and then out of a glacier.

A friend we met on the trail, Abbey, picks her way across the glacier from Kongma La to Lobuche.

"Glacier" might bring to mind a wall of white snow and ice, but the glaciers in the Everest region are all receding, I've read, and this glacier looks more like a moonscape than a snowcap. The shape of it is a massive river of sand-coated ice flowing north-south, and our task was to find a pathway directly across it to the town on the far side. High sidewalls form the outer edges, and between then is a disorganized slurry of rock, silt, ice and water.  

Climbing the far sidewall of the glacier deposited us with relief into the settlement of Lobuche. The entire day of hiking took more than seven hours, and I immediately crashed when we checked into the guesthouse.

Everest

We stayed two nights in Lobuche to make time for a day hike up the valley toward Mount Everest. Here, the Three Passes route meets the human highway of people of trekking to Everest Base Camp, an easier route that is still no slouch. From Lobuche, hundreds of trekkers set out north to Gorak Shep, which is just a couple of guesthouses and helipad on flat spot in the valley. From Gorak Shep there are two destinations: Everest Base Camp is a few hours walk to the northeast; and Kalapatthar, a stiff climb to a spectacular hilltop at 5,550 meters/18,315 feet. I skipped the walk to EBC itself and instead hiked up Kalapatthar for spectacular views of Everest, Nuptse and entire panorama of the Himalaya.

Second Pass: Cho La (5380 meters/17,754 feet)

The first pass I approached with zen-like resolve, and the relief of that accomplishment freed me to really have FUN climbing the second pass. Cho La freaking rocked! We had hiked a very short day from Lobuche to Dzongla, where fog descended by afternoon and pressed against the windows of the warm dining room where 20 of us passed the time. The next morning dawned with ice on the inside of our windows, and set out west for Cho La.

Side view of the glacier at Cho La Pass. We climbed from here, over the ice to the high point at the upper left.

The climb was steep, no surprise, but most of the elevation was gained in a long stretch of scrambling and climbing through boulders. Tumble-down rock piles are so much more fun to climb than slippery scree slopes! We emerged from the boulders to a viewpoint that looked east down the valley toward Dzongla, but more impressive was the view right in front of us: a massive white glacier. Unlike the sand-filled ice quarry that drained my energy a few days earlier, this was a field of ice and snow cascading down from the pass. The glacier was shot through with running meltwater that we could hear beneath our feet and see between the fissures in the ice. (This was one of the few times in the entire trek that I wished for trekking poles.) The bright blue sky and warm sun lit up the white ice and put everyone in a happy mood. Icy snowballs were thrown, people stared at each other with giddiness, two Nepalese trekkers cranked up the music on their phone and broke into dance party in the middle of the ice. From the glacier we could see the flags marking the pass, and it was just a few hundred more meters of climbing over rocks to reach the top. Triumph! I loved this day so, so much.

The backside of Cho La is not so nice. Similar to the backside of Kongma La, there were a lot of rocks to climb through, but these were easier to navigate. A long, long walk through a valley led to a much-needed stop for tea and soup. We reunited with Abbey and Corey here, then set out to cross another rock-sand-ice glacier, this one even larger and more ominous that the one that followed Kongma La. We stood on the sidewall and looked across, not able to see the town of Gokyo, our destination somewhere on the far side. The trail through this glacier was much easier to find -- a season's worth of trekkers had worn a reliable path here. But as we walked we could hear the glacier alive beneath our feet -- cracks, moans and shifts in the sandy ice were mesmerizing, but I was also stricken by thoughts like, "Let's just get the hell out of here as fast as possible..."

Finally, finally, finally emerging over the sidewall was a relief, and a bit later we were rewarded with a view I'd been looking forward to ever since Beth and Michael described Gokyo with dreamy voices. The town's lodges are nestled between snowy mountains and one of the opaque blue-green lakes the region is known for, and just stunning.

Third Pass: Renjo La (5388 meters/17,780 feet)

Gokyo was lovely but so, so cold. We took a rest day here, and the timing was great: that day was socked in with fog, hovered below freezing and turned to slight snow in the evening. I spent most of the day huddled near a stove with Jill, Abbey and Corey playing cards, drinking tea and genuinely resting. I also walked over to the Fitzroy Hotel on the advice of a Scottish doctor who's living here for the season and paid $6 to take a hot shower. Eight days of hard hiking had passed since my last shower, and this was possibly the best six dollars I've ever spent. The gas-fired water heater was no joke -- the water was wonderfully scalding, and sent plumes of hot steam billowing around the small bathroom. (The mildewed curtains and exposed electrical wiring didn't dampen the joy of it at all.)

A screaming headache woke me up hours before our planned early morning departure for the third and final pass. I had intermittent headaches at high altitude, but usually in the afternoons after climbing high. I tried to drown it in ibuprofen and by 6:30 a.m. it was definitely more tolerable. Looking back on the previous day, I realized dehydration was a likelier culprit than mountain sickness, and figured I would give Renjo a try. If the headache came back stronger, I could I always turn back and stay another night at Gokyo.

The climb up Renjo was the easiest of the three passes, but my hiking was molasses slow. Altitude seemed to have a more deleterious effect on me at this point than earlier, which was annoying as well as counter-intuitive. Twenty steps left me panting like I had sprinted 200 meters on a track. Lots of pausing to catch my breath, which happily also created time to take in the views. The final climb up to the knife-edge of the pass seemed interminably steep and high overhead, but after a not-too-long series of switchbacks we had already made it! The wind was fierce, but the snow that fell the night before dusted everything in a silvery white sheen. Spectacular.

The walk down the backside was long and steep and the snow made it slippery. The trekkers hiking uphill from west to east had a miserable climb ahead of them; I didn't envy them. Four of us were walking together and making quick work of it. Lonely Planet suggested taking a couple of days to cover the stretch that we banged out in one day. At a lunch stop we asked a guide how far we were from the large town of Thame, where his group was heading to. "My group will take 3 1/2 hours. You guys are faster, maybe 2 1/2 hours." How long would it take you to do it on your own? I asked him. "Me? 45 minutes!" he laughed, as he poured himself a cup of tea.

We walked hard and made it to the edge of town, Thame Teng. An enterprising guesthouse owner was hanging out at the chorten that marked the entrance to town and asked if we needed rooms for the night. She walked us (and her cow) down the dirt lane to her house, where her teenage daughter spoke perfect English and was a great host. (I was more than a little proud that she was shocked we had walked from Gokyo, over the Renjo, all the way to Thame. Hell yeah!) We warmed ourselves around the yak-dung-burning stove and feasted on the ubiquitous meal of the trail, dal bhat. Outside in the yard, two baby yaks snoozed in the grass and the sky darkened to night.

The fast descent from high altitude to the low valley (5,388 meters down to 3,800 meters) revealed a wild change in landscape, vegetation and local settlements. By the time we reached Thame, just a few hours from Namche bazaar and the trek's conclusion, trees had returned and the scent of evergreen needles was strong. Electric lines reappeared, linking houses and villages with singular, swooping blacks lines. We stopped at a Tibetan Buddhist monastery and sat in the prayer hall as the students -- teenagers and younger -- sat in the warm robes and chanted the scripture. As we sat quietly on mats in a sunny corner, a tray of hot tea appeared to welcome us. It was perfect, meditative moment of appreciation to remember the trek by.

[Phakding-Three Passes-Namche-Lukla: October 17-31, 2017.]

Postcards From Nepal Airports

I. Pokhara

Hello! I’m writing this on a plane from Kathmandu to Pokhara, a small prop plane with maybe 21 seats. I’m sitting cross-legged on my narrow seat because my big backpack is jammed into the space where my legs might be, and my small backpack is piled on my lap. Actually my legs have kind of fallen asleep... but at least I know my luggage will arrive with me, and also that when a Yeti Airlines (real name, no joke) official asks, "Are you checking a bag?" that the answer is totally your choice.

I was ticketed for a 1:00 p.m. flight and when I checked in at 11:42 a.m. the guy asked, “Do you want to be on the 11:30 flight?” Ummm, sure? At noon they said the 11:30 a.m. flight would leave at 12:45 p.m. and we took off around 1:15 p.m. So, Nepal Time is a real thing.

As we prepared for takeoff, the flight attendant paid zero notice to me and my bags crammed around my seat. She cheerily offered me a Yeti Airlines branded caramel and cotton balls for my ears to dull the sound of the plane’s propellers.

Landing soon, cheers!

---

Lukla airport. Google it, but don't tell mom.

ii. Lukla

Hey friends, finally got out of the Lukla airport. Yes, this is the one in the YouTube videos, supposedly the "most dangerous airport in the world," with its angled, very short runway that's jammed into a mountainside. More relevant to my three days there, it's possibly the most dysfunctional airport. Everyone shows up with a ticket that has a flight number and departure time and it seems normal, but the airlines keep a separate list that has everyone assigned a number 1 through 20. People listed under #1 go out on the first flight, whenever weather and whims allow that to happen. Hive wisdom was that groups #14 or higher never get out, and I sat around Lukla for a long time listed with #15, #16 and worse.

Meanwhile, helicopters were taking off constantly and I really wanted to get on one! I made a nuisance of myself to the helicopter operations manager and a few pilots, and they finally sneaked me onto a medivac flight for a cash sum that I'd rather not specify and which I'm certain stayed in the pocket of the ops guy. No matter, he came into the waiting area singing out loud, "You're going to Kat-man-du!!" and I was STOKED!

In addition to my first helicopter ride I also got my first ambulance ride, with the Australian couple who were the primary passengers on the helicopter. A 1970s-era ambulance met us at the KTM helipad and their guide and the medical assistant were both like, "You get in too." (?!?!) In the back of the ambulance, the Australian woman was on a stretcher, and sitting on the bench alongside her were the medical assistant, her husband, me and their guide. The guide and the medical assistant chat each other up the whole time, and the Australian man gives me a nudge and wink when they appear to exchange phone numbers. As we're driving through Kathmandu with the siren on, the guide says to me, "You're staying in Thamel, right?" (Solid guess - it's the main tourist area.) "The hospital is close by there. We save you a taxi!" I'm sure the insurance company won't mind...

PS: I ran into the family later and they are all fine! We didn't even learn each other's names but we hugged hello on the street when we recognized each other.

[Click for photos: What happens in Lukla stays in Lukla. At least for 2-3 days...]

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iii. Kathmandu air cargo customs building

Hi guys,

You know in action movies when drug smugglers bury cocaine deep inside shipments of coffee and there's a dramatic scene when the police tear open the shipping container to reveal the contraband and the customs officials are like, uhhhhhh......

So, I'm standing in this massive warehouse that processes all the cargo that's shipped by air to Kathmandu, which I think means basically anything that's shipped to Nepal. I'm waiting for one tiny FedEx package, but all around me are piles of merchandise and goods. As the afternoon wears on, it gets busier and busier -- the floor-to-ceiling gates that held all the cargo on rafters behind lock and key are opened, and little by little all these piles of goods are brought out to the receiving area. Art Vandalays are all over the place, waiting for their shipments. Towers of crates and boxes are deposited by forklifts, some of them tumbling over in direct defiance of their 'fragile' labels. I see eight boxes marked Yamaha guitars, 50 HP desktop computers, medical supplies from an Indian factory, hundreds of boxes of Swarovski jewelry, 24 boxes marked "neon" that just crashed to the ground.... 

At first all the shipments are in piles unopened, their recipients standing by. Then the customs officials get to work, flipping through paperwork and interrogating the import guys and opening boxes to verify the contents. It's taking forever for a customs agent to get around to me with my single box, so I stand there making note of other people's stuff that is now cascading out of its packaging. Nervous, urgent men are working to prove to the skeptical customs officials that everything is just as the manifest says it is. (Having had my own spurious interaction with one of the import agents, I look at everyone wondering who's getting a cut of what.)

Two customs officials finally get to me and I find myself holding my breath that the FedEx box my sister sent me does, in fact, contain the cell phone that I think it does. The agent had told me sternly, if there is anything else in this box you HAVE to tell me. You have to say exactly what's inside. "It's just a phone, that's it!" I promised.

The customs officer ripped open the box and in addition to the phone, out spilled handfuls of silvery, individually wrapped Peppermint Patties. For just a moment, the customs official thought she'd caught me, and for a moment I panicked, too. Then I tore one open -- partly to prove it was innocuous, and partly because I'd been there for hours and was starving. "Candy!" I beamed at her, offering her one. She half-smiled, disappointed but amused, declined the Peppermint Pattie, and handed me my phone.

“Bupsa?” Whoopsa… (Type 2 Fun)

Khari Kola river valley. Somewhere around here is a town. Now I just need to find it....

“You go ahead,” I told Andy as we prepared to leave our lunch stop in Jubing, a full plate of dal bhat lulling me into a post-meal sleepy pace. “I’m going to take this slow.” The walk from Jubing to Bupsa, our destination for the night, should be about three hours, uphill at first (the worst, right after eating) then downhill then uphill again. On the way we’d walk through the village of Khari Kola and across the river before meeting the final ascent to the settlement of Bupsa on top of the hill.

I left in high spirits, knowing that Bupsa would be the last overnight before we met the human highway of trekkers arriving at Lukla and joining us on the trail to Everest. I was enjoying the sun, the view of the river that cuts a deep gorge through this region, and the realization that the mountains were definitely more dramatic here.

The trail rose then evened out as it traced around the side of a mountain and then opened into a view of a hardscrabble farmland. I thought I might be able to see Andy up ahead here – the turn in the trail afforded a long view of a lot of terrain. But Andy is a seriously fast hiker and I couldn’t spot him up ahead. I did encounter a woman and her child sitting on a narrow, rocky section of trail. “Namaste,” I said in a big friendly voice, and she returned the greeting with a skeptical gaze. Odd, not the usual response. “Khari Kola?” I asked, gesturing in the direction I was already heading. She looked at me a bit longer and pointed back from whence I had come. She might be referring to the long river by that name, I thought, whereas I was looking for the town. I tried again, this time referring to the day’s ultimate destination: “Bupsa?” I asked, still gesturing ahead on the trail. “Bupsa,” she nodded slowly, and I took this as affirmation that I was heading in the right direction.

That’s the thing about confirmation bias. You rarely can recognize you’re committing it.

What I did not know at that moment was that sometime earlier in the afternoon I had accidentally left the main trekking trail and veered onto a side trail traveled by locals only. The route I should be on was heading due east on a well-worn trail of easy footing through one town to another. The route I was on traced a thin line northwest, down the slope of a river valley, through terraced farms and steep woods – a line that became thinner and more suspect the longer I walked it.

This is not a real bridge. Upper right are the brick pilings of the former bridge. Upper left is where you can imagine a trail, if you've already convinced yourself that it exists.

At the river crossing, I knew something was weird. Long, swinging suspension bridges were familiar, but this bridge was merely several bamboo poles lashed together and set across the rocks. To my right were the rotting remnants of actual suspension bridge and my brain rationalized it this way: earthquake damage took out the bridge, this is the temporary replacement. I stewed about how to get across Huck Finn’s raft without falling in, and on the other side I scrambled up the steep, muddy embankment looking for the trail. I found it, sort of, and as I walked through the dense brush on the narrowing trail, the doubts crept in.

I stopped on a flat stretch, looked at my topo map and assumed wrongly for the second time that afternoon that I knew where I was: there are two trekking trails that enter Bupsa I somehow had gotten onto the one that I wasn’t planning to take. It would be a bit longer of a walk, I thought, but I would get there if I just kept going. It was nearly 3 p.m. and I decided to give myself one more hour of walking. If nothing had materialized by 4 p.m., I would still have plenty of daylight to retrace my steps – all the way back to Jubing if necessary.

Hours later I would be shocked, somewhat horrified, to realize that in fact I had not been on either of those trekking routes. I had gone so completely off trail that I was now switchbacking up the backside of a mountain on a local trail rarely used at all, but that never sees the soles of trekkers’ boots. After a half-hour of climbing through forest underbrush, a view to a terraced farm opened up and I was ecstatic. I left the trail and walked through the tiny plowed fields till I found a person I could ask for help. I pulled out the Lonely Planet book and hacked away at the phrases in the back, “Help, I’m lost!” The woman working the field gave me a quizzical smile and a namaste, but clearly my attempt at speaking Nepali stunk.

“Bupsa?” I asked. “Bupsa," she answered, pointing straight up the mountain behind her, gesturing to a trail that I couldn’t discern.

“Bupsa?” I asked again, as if that would elicit confirming details. “Bupsa, Bupsa,” she urged pointing uphill.

With hesitation, I started walking in the direction she pointed, stopping every few feet to turn and ask. “Bupsa…?” and she kept waving me on, “Bupsa, Bupsa!”

A bit later, two teenage boys were running down the trail toward me. Score! Teenagers! (At this point in the trip I am convinced that all Nepalese teenagers speak at least some English to compensate for my total lack of Nepali.)

“Do you speak English?” I asked hopefully.

“Yes!”

“This way to Bupsa?” I ask, pointing uphill.

“Bupsa, yes.”

“How far to Bupsa?”

He stumbles a bit here. “Is it one hour?” I ask, cringing that he might say yes.

“No,” he chuckles, gesturing with his hands to indicate a smaller amount of time.

“Is it five minutes?”

“No, no, no,” he laughs, “more."

Okay, this is okay. I was going in the right direction, uphill, and I was somewhere between five minutes and one hour from Bupsa.

My relief and confidence growing, I repeated this conversation with every human being I could, and reminded myself to laugh by asking a few farm animals for directions, too. I was tracking through people's fields, yards and quiet trails that are normally unmolested by tourists, and yet everyone was as helpful as they could possibly be. The trail forked and curved and I was constantly doubling back to the same people to ask yet again, “Bupsa?” And they smiled encouragingly, pointing up the path. Always up, up, up.

At one point, I was confident enough in my proximity to Bupsa that I paused to take this picture. These baby goats stumbled and couldn’t yet bleat properly, they were so young!

Around four o’clock, the cold and damp fog were crowding in but at least the houses and farms were more closely spaced. I approached the dooryard of a small farmhouse and asked a teenage girl, “Is this the way to Bupsa?” And she cheerfully answered, “This is Bupsa!”

Uh no… This couldn’t be Bupsa! Bupsa is supposed to be a dense cluster of trekking lodges offering warm meals, sometimes warm showers and freezing cold beds. But I was standing on a steep hillside surrounded only by Nepalese homesteads, lived in by Nepalese people, with no evidence of a trekker in sight.

Bupsa….

I mimicked laying my head down to sleep and asked again, “Bupsa? Teahouse?” and she looked at me quizzically but gestured up the hill a ways farther.

Nearing 4:30 p.m., I reach an area where kids were playing soccer on a dirt field, and a family was building a house. The woman sees me trudging uphill and hails me over with an interested smile. “Bupsa? Teahouse?” I ask her, feeling my determined optimism starting to fail. “Yes, yes,” she smiles and walks me over to her husband. This man sent from heaven speaks perfect English, stops the hammering he’s doing on the house and talks to me about where I’m trying to go.

I explain I’ve been lost and I’m supposed to meet a friend in Bupsa at a trekking lodge. He tells me to keep walking uphill and I’ll get to Bupsagumbda. This worries me because I remember seeing a village on the map called Gumbadebanda, east of Bupsa. I shake my head no, thinking, I don’t want to go farther east, I want to go directly to the village.

But this kind, patient man thankfully did not give up. “No, you walk to Bupsagumbda. You know what gumbda is?”

At this point I realize I misheard him; he was asking do I know what gompa is. 'Gompa' is monastery – I should walk uphill to the monastery, and that’s where the center of Bupsa is.

Bupsa gompa!! I took off with renewed energy.

The whole time I’d been marching myself down unused backcountry trails, I’d also been dragging the worry with me of how the hell I’d meet up with Andy. We had expected to reconnect around Khari Kola, and he must be wondering where I was. My only thought was to get to Bupsa, get on WiFi at a trekking lodge and try to message him. He could be waiting at Khari Kola, he could have headed back to Jubing to look for me, or hopefully he decided to push ahead to the place where we agreed to end the day: Bupsa.

Now that that I was definitely minutes away from the end of my long, wrong-way walk, I was fully focused on figuring the odds of how we’d meet up. Even if he did make it to Bupsa, which of the half-dozen lodges might he be in? Perhaps he’s all the way back in Jubing, in which case we’ll lose a day while I hang out in Bupsa tomorrow waiting for him to catch up.

“Patti!” I hear through the muffled cloud of my competing thoughts. “Patti!!!”

I turn around and 50 feet below me on the trail is Andy. Andy!

How the hell…?

A few hours earlier, near the point where I unwittingly left the main trail for parts unknown, Andy had paused to wonder if I would recognized the turn I was supposed to take. An expert navigator, he later described to me that keeping on the correct trail essentially required making a 180-degree hairpin turn that was easy to miss. A little ways after that, having not seen me, he decided to turn back and go down the wrong trail to find me. But by that time, I had gotten so far down the trail that he wasn’t able to quite catch me; he actually figured that I hadn’t yet gotten to the trail. Or possibly that I twisted an ankle and went back to Jubing. He knew that he wasn't on the right trail anymore, but decided to push ahead.

There was no part of me that believed Andy and I would be sitting in Bupsa in the same lodge, beers in hand, by 5 p.m. But hot damn!

Either way, we were both shocked to learn that I was ahead of him on the same trail that we both managed to get totally lost on. The difference was that Andy knew where he was lost, and I had no idea.

Minutes later we flopped into the outdoor chairs of a lodge -- relieved, surprised, dumbfounded at the turn of events. We spread out the topo map and recreated how the afternoon went wrong. “Did you go across this bamboo bridge?” I asked him, showing him the photo evidence on my phone. “Oh yeah, I took a photo of that, too.” Comparing the timestamps, we realized we were just 10 minutes apart. And we both had gotten the same confusing early directions from the same baffled woman.

Khari Kola? Back the way you came.

Bupsa? That way, uphill.

Nepal Trek 1: Jiri to Phakding

This summer, Beth and Michael spread maps and books across the table of their screened-in porch in Vermont and gave us an introduction to hiking in Nepal. The impressions were lasting -- their reverence of the culture, their reassurance about the physical demands, their gorgeous photos of the landscape. But my notes from that day were cryptic and scattered. "Renjo, but next pass closed." "IGH/leave bag Kathmandu."  "No shower 3 weeks." And, "Everest: start in Jiri."

There are endless options for trekking in Nepal, and I had a few top choices: the Everest region, the Annapurnas in the central hills, and the possibility (later discarded) of serious wilderness trekking in western Nepal. Andy and I would trek in the Everest region together, and then I would head to the Annapurnas solo later in the Fall. The draw of Everest is self-evident: it's EVEREST. And not just the highest mountain in the world, but one surrounded but almost-as-high mountains that surpass it in beauty and the ability to dislocate your jaw.

But there are two downsides to trekking in the Everest region:

1. People. So many, many friggin' people. A massive region that is almost devoid of settlements (save those tiny villages that exist to support the trekking routes) should not feel so crowded, but it does when you pile scores of bucket-listing tourists onto the same trail and steer them in the direction of Everest Base Camp.

2. Altitude. This one is serious: Acute Mountain Sickness is no joke, and visitors to the Everest region are warned constantly to be vigilant about symptoms. (I'll write about the day-to-day experience at high altitude in a future post.)

It seems so simple from here.

To help remedy both of these issues, Beth and Michael suggested that we start our Everest trek from the town of Jiri, rather than the traditional starting point of Lukla. From Jiri, it is one week's walk to Lukla; the trail runs roughly from west to east across farms and foothills that gradually acclimatize the hiker to altitude, but it's not nearly as well-traveled as the trails we'd meet once we turned north toward the big mountains. The landscape, vegetation and interaction with locals are all of a totally different stripe than we should expect closer to Everest, they said. If you have time, do it.

And so on October 12 we left Kathmandu at 5 a.m. in a Jeep to Jiri, and by early afternoon we were walking south on the dirt road out of town.

Lonely Planet's Trekking in the Nepal Himalaya and Himalayan Map House's incredibly detailed topographic maps were our best resources, in addition to knowledge we gleaned from people on the trails. LP suggested that Jiri to Lukla would take eight days, but on October 17, six days later, we stopped walking just before sunset in the town of Phakding, several towns beyond Lukla, now noticeably on the Human Highway of Everest-bound trekkers. (This would not be the first or last time that our walking speed grossly outpaced Lonely Planet's estimates. But I feel for the writers -- they have a very broad readership of wildly varying physical abilities.)

The Route

Distance is not a dimension used in Himalayan trekking; instead, everything is measured in hours between locations, and the meters to ascend and descend the mountain in front of you. In the six days between Jiri and Phakding, we hiked anywhere from four to eight hours a day, and the cumulative ascent was approximately 6,100 meters (20,130) feet and descent was around 5,400 meters (17,820 feet). We stayed overnight at guesthouses in Shivalaya, Kinja, just below Lamjura La, Ringmo, Bupsa and finally Phakding.

Suspenseful!

Amazing scenery

About 10 minutes down the trail from Jiri, we came across a small group of goats and my heart skipped with elation! Of all the animals that I easily fall in love with, goats smite me every time; they are really damn adorable. I didn't know it yet, but the goat/cow/ungulate-to-human ratio for the next several days would be maybe 1,000-to-1. The main "Jiri to Everest" trail crosses directly through tiny subsistence farms, bumping right against the side walls of people's houses, stepping through their dooryards and past their laundry lines, down across the terraced fields that they've plowed into the mountainsides with hand tools and horsepower (cow power, actually - very few horses here).

The trail undulated up and down river valleys, around hills and through settlements, constantly revealing new panoramas of green terraces, dense forests and red earth. The thin line of the first suspension bridge stretching over a roaring milky blue river was a thrill: the footbed was aluminum grates, the sides were chainlink attached to cables, and the span was guarded by a barking dog. I stepped energetically across as a way of casting off any wariness. (A few days and many more suspension bridges later, I'd be casually ducking around porters and stopping mid-span to take in the views.)

Stiff challenges

Day 3 on this hike was straight uphill from Kinja to near Lamjura La, the high point for this stretch of trail. The profile of the hike suggested an eight-hour walk from 2,500 meters (8,250 feet) in altitude to 3,500 meters (11,550 feet). I felt encouraged that I was moving faster than Lonely Planet predicted but it was a hot, relentless uphill slog. At one water break, I admitted aloud, "This is hard," while remaining aware that the real mountains loomed in the near future. "By this time next week, it will seem quaint."

Fantastic lodges

Teahouse trekking is a special style of backpacking. You don’t carry tents, sleeping bags or food (though I did have a stash of Snickers bars). Instead, your backpack holds just your essential clothes and personal needs for the trip, and you stop at trailside teahouses or trekking lodges for meals, and then to stay overnight at the end of the day.

This is the way we charge our phones, so early in the morning...

The lodges vary in simplicity and size, but the basic deal is the same everywhere: a bed for the night is very cheap -– just one or two dollars. The lodges make money on serving you dinner and breakfast, and that can run a few dollars or several, depending on what you order. (Always order dal bhat! Delicious, nutritious, and you always get seconds.) A hot shower, boiled drinking water, an electric outlet to charge your phone -– sometimes these things were free and sometimes there was a small fee for them, too.

Laundry. At first, I rinsed out a few pieces of clothes every few days and dried them in the sun if we finished hiking early enough in the afternoon, or by the fire if it was evening, or sometimes by draping them on the back of my pack while we hiked. This seemed worthwhile when we hiked in the lower elevations, where the hiking was hot and sweaty. Once we hit the cold temps further north and higher up, I basically just wore the same clothes constantly for days, adding layers and rarely subtracting them.

A stone fireplace fit for warming people, cooking meals, and drying laundry.

Along the main trekking route, there was intermittent cell service, and some lodges had WiFi. In Kinja, a German trekker asked for the WiFi password and Dumbar, the man who ran the hostel, said it wasn’t working.

“What if there’s an emergency?” the German asked, a little put out by the lack of connectivity.

Dumbar gestured to a small wooden box, a black phone receiver visible inside. “We have satellite phone for emergencies, to call rescue helicopters or anything important.” He smiled broadly at the man, “You want me to make emergency call for you? I can call Angela Merkel!” (We declined his offer to call Donald Trump.)

The Junbesi Chamber of Commerce can thank me for this photo.

Welcoming towns and people

Trekkers wandering through were normal enough not to raise notice among the people who live on the trekking route, yet every person we encountered greeted us with a warm, genuine, "Namaste!" Sometimes it was joyfully drawn into a singsong, "Na-ma-staaaay!!" which I loved and tried to mimic back.

Hiking down from Lamjura La through a forest of rhododendrons, we walked into the idyllic valley that cradles the town of Junbesi. The village was alive in the sun, with kids playing at recess in the schoolyard and artists painting the decorative entrance gate at the town center.  As we neared town, a handful smiling boys passed us on the trail; they had shorn heads and were dressed in the burgundy robes of monks, clearly students at the monastery. (The youngest of them, maybe seven years old, had white earbuds snaking down into the collar of his robe.)

After climbing up the far side of the river valley at Junbesi, we got our first view of Mount Everest, some 50 miles away as the crow flies (and there are lot of crows here). We ate lunch on the sun-soaked patio of a lodge that had a perfect view of the snowy distant mountains. The owner trimmed pieces of yak cheese from a huge wheel and his wife perched on the stone wall and took in the view through her binoculars. There are people who radiate good feelings, and these two effortlessly warmed the air with their kindness and humor. Also, hands down the BEST vegetable soup I’ve ever tasted.

Company on the trail

One particularly cloudy day deposited us at a lodge that was nestled up near the ridge of a mountain pass in a dense fog. Ducking into the dim gathering space around the fire, a dozen or so trekkers who were staying the night warmed themselves by the open stove, sat on thick carpets that lined the benches around heavy wooden tables and sipped milky hot tea. The Nepalese women who ran the lodge were kind and good-humored, and we sat in awe watching them crank out plentiful servings of dal bhat and more for our dinner. Four Aussies had been our consistent leapfrogging companions for a few days, and we played Uno while shivering off the damp air. Outside, well after sunset, the fog had lifted and we stood together in the cold, mesmerized by the Milky Way and the massive sky that had been hidden from us all afternoon.

An Israeli, a Brit, a Chinese and a Russian walk into a lodge... Osiv, Stuart, Ivan and Pham discuss the perils of trail health.

A few days later, we shared a lodge dinner with four guys who had just met at the trailhead -- a Brit, an Israeli, a Chinese and a Russian. If it sounds like the beginning of a joke, it should: I hadn't laughed that hard in awhile when I listened as Ivan tried to explain to Pham, using the English that they both struggled to command, that you don't want gastrointestinal distress while trekking because there are no port-o-lets on Mount Everest. Pointing dramatically at a poster of the Khumbu Glacier on the wall, Ivan exclaimed laughing: "Go to photo! Where is toilet?! All malfunction, no toilet!" (In this case, "malfunction" was his term of art for diarrhea.)

Trail friends come and go easily in this environment. You match pace for awhile, sometimes you exchange names but not always; the Aussies, the Three Musketeers, Abbey & Corey, the Minnesota Not-Nice Guy are just some of the people who made the trail more memorable, as if the trail needed the help. Strangers can stand together comfortably here and just revel in your mutual appreciation for the surroundings or your pride in finishing the climb, and move on. It's transient, but not sad. Chances are, you'll see them again few days or hours down the trail; and if not, you had a rare shared moment.

Transportation, Nepal-style

The entire transportation infrastructure of eastern Nepal, in one photo.

Part-way through this trek, a German family heading in the opposite direction gave us a preview of the terrain that was ahead. Among other things, Katya told us, there are a LOT of "mullays." The native English speakers among us looked at each other quizzically. Was this a religious group? A native flower?

"Mullays," she repeated. "You say, M-U-L-E-S?" Mules. MULES. And man, was she right, so many mullays! After the town of Ringmo, the cargo traffic on the trails picked up dramatically and it was all carried by mule trains -- teams of a dozen or two dozen or more mules, laden with water cans, grain sacks, gas cans and pretty much anything that needs to move from one village to another. This region of Nepal has almost no roads, and all goods, merchandise and people move on foot and pack animal, up and down trails across the mountains.

***

As we neared Lukla we met the influx of people who were starting their trek from there. So many people, most of them in guided groups, too many of them under-prepared for what they were attempting, and all of us funneling onto the same trails heading north. Trekking in Everest is NOT a wilderness experience, but we tried to create some separation from masses by choosing a slightly less traveled and harder route through Everest: the Three Passes.

[Jiri to Phakding: October 12-17, 2017.]

What Have We Learned So Far?

Two months ago today, I got in my tiny car just after the sun rose over the Winooski River and left Vermont for a long break. In the intervening weeks, I have traveled across the country and halfway around the world. Here's a scattershot of thoughts I keep returning to:

1. There is real pleasure in learning, and this is heightened when language barriers and lack of internet access curtail the amount and quality of information available to you.

2. Unfamiliar places are fantastically fertile ground for imagination. There is sensory enjoyment in wandering, looking up, soaking in smells and sounds and fantasizing about the millions of people over thousands of years who've walked through the places you're lingering in.

3. Travel is also an exercise in emotional intelligence. Irritations and low moments call on you to manage your reactions and expectations. The photo up top captured a moment of pure, unvarnished joy. That baby goat was so soft, so sweet tempered; the sky was intensely blue and sunny, the view down the valley astonishing. This is what travel adventures look like online: curated, cultivated happiness. The reality is, there are frustrations, extrinsic and self-imposed. There are days that don't go so well, and moments when irritations can escalate more quickly than they ought to. Learning to manage this is also part of travel - finding the most harmonious line between patience and action, between flexibility and decisiveness.

4. The phrase "visually stunning" has felt literal at moments. There are landscapes in China and Tibet that overwhelmed me in ways that there wasn't space in my brain to do anything but stare and try to memorize what I was seeing.

Lake Yamdok, Tibet

6. Normalcy is a shape-shifter and you can pretty much get used to anything.

7. Planning and thoughts of "what happens next?" are inescapable. Micro-term, near-term, long-term - you make the best decisions you can about where to go, how to get there, where to stay, what to eat and what to do based on the information you have available (and then laugh later when you realize how naive/prescient/lucky you might have been).

Seven Days In Tibet

A view toward the Himalayas peeks through multitudes of prayer flags.

China was genuinely wonderful - I was smitten with all of it, even the moments that might seem unpleasant on the surface. But just a smidgen of a trip through Tibet complicated and soured my feelings about China. Let's start with Lhasa:

The old town of Lhasa where Tibetan culture thrives is deeply atmospheric: women wear traditional dresses, Buddhists in prayer seem to outnumber any other pedestrians or street vendors, narrow stone streets thread between centuries-old Tibetan style buildings, creating alleys and alcoves that you could explore for days. in the enter of old town, you see a steady flow of Buddhist "pilgrims" (our guide called them) practicing the kora: a meditative prayer that's done while walking in a large circle around sacred places.  The kora in Lhasa is a circular pedestrian street that passes several sacred monuments with the main temple at the center. As they walk the kora clockwise, people also chant and often holding small prayer wheels and spinning large fixed prayer wheels as they walk by rows of them. Some people prostrate themselves as they travel the kora - first kneeling, then laying flat in prayer and then rising and stepping forward to repeat the yoga-like flow of movements. A strong, noticeable tide of worshippers walks the kora at almost any time of day.

Evening: people walking the kora in Lhasa, including two monks and a man kneeling in prostration.

What does this have to do with China?

Marching in the opposite direction, counter-clockwise, on the kora circuit are Chinese police, SWAT teams and military personnel making their presence known. They are not a constant parade like the pilgrims are, but they are impossible to miss: they usually march in 10-man formations (at least, I never saw a woman among their ranks) and wear Kevlar vests, helmets - some with face masks - and carry semi-automatic rifles and riot shields. Some teams carry fire extinguishers, to prevent or end any protestor's attempt at self-immolation.

Just to enter this circular street through old Lhasa, everyone must pass through a police checkpoint; all bags are x-rayed, but white people were waved through without an ID check.

Worshippers throw incense into the stupa as they pass by on the kora in Lhasa.

Adjacent to this old neighborhood, a broad modern boulevard that leads to "Liberation Square" is decorated with Chinese flags. Three massive black police vehicles were parked here at the edge of old town -- one the size of a motorhome, another sort of resembling a tank, all three bristling with communications antennae and uniformed personnel with weapons. One officer carrying a powerful-looking rifle smiled at me and called, "Hello!" in English. Incongruous.

Liberation Square, Lhasa.

Attempt to photograph any police or military presence - or accidentally capture it in a photo - and you'll be pulled aside by a handful of officers and made to go through all your photos, presumably to delete the offending images.

Outside Lhasa, checkpoints were frequent. Our tour spent three long days driving across western Tibet from Lhasa to the Himalayas - nearly the border of Nepal. Along the way we became accustomed to our microbus stopping and our guide telling us to get out our passports.

About Liberation: this is the Chinese government's term of art for its annexation of Tibet in 1950, a situation that Tibet's exiled Dalai Lama described as cultural genocide.

I noticed portraits of Chinese leaders and Chinese flags prominently displayed everywhere I went in Tibet, including in restaurants and the one private home our tour group visited.

(Admittedly, all the areas we visited are frequented by tourists, whose admission to the region is tightly controlled by the Chinese government; we saw what they wanted us to see).

"Cultural relics protections, everyone's responsibility" reads an ironic sign at Tashi Luhnpo monastery in Shigatse, Tibet. #culturalrevolution

Chinese transportation projects and development projects in Tibet are double-edged sword. Arguably, they raise the standard of living but at the expense of traditional customs, culture and religion. Old-stye Tibetan homes are razed to make way for apartment buildings that elderly Tibetans don't want to live in, we were told. The same road and rail projects that might boost the Tibetan economy also speed the cultural disintegration that results from scores of Chinese and others easily moving in to confer and confirm their own cultural stamp on Tibet.

Living room of a traditional Tibetan family's home, complete with Chinese leaders' portraits.

"Ask my anything, but maybe don't lead with politics," our guide Tensing told us, smiling, early on our tour. Guided tours with registered agencies and credentialed guides are currently the only way to visit Tibet. Tensing was a font of information on Tibetan Buddhism and culture, but only on rare occasion referenced Liberation, the Cultural Revolution or the politics of Tibet's lack of sovereignty.

My visit to Tibet was brief and I saw an extremely narrow slice of life and geography, and it was through my Western perspective without benefit of deep knowledge. But I left feeling both concerned for the vitality of Tibetan culture, and also resigned that perhaps the tipping point of Chinese appropriation has already passed.

[Tibet tour: October 2-9, 2017]

Xining's Hipster Craft Brewery And Woodworking Shop

When you are transiting through a city and looking for a place to hang out for the night, and you get advice to take a city bus to a certain bus stop, get out and walk 200 meters, then turn down an unmarked alley into a "compound" and then look for a grey brick building - follow that advice. It may lead you to place like 1/2 Sugar, which would rightfully fit into any microbrew-loving city in America.

The best beers we tried were the milk stout, the Hammer Abbey and IPA. On atmosphere, 1/2 Sugar ticks all the aesthetic boxes:

• enormous ebony chalkboard wall covered in stylized diagrams that explain the brewing process
• glassed-in fermentation room, walled with white subway tiles, showing off a dozen shiny tanks
• white-washed farm tables with upholstered stools, low cozy sitting areas with grey linen couches, minimalist leather sofas and natural wood tables, all overhung with modern chrome chandeliers glowing with warm light

Huo Huo finishing the cat condo.

Improbably, one corner of the bar was occupied by the woodworking shop of a smiley 30-something Chinese man who was finishing a very large cat condo when we walked in. Huo Huo, we came to learn, is part owner of 1/2 Sugar, speaks enough English to explain a bit about the place and share his favorite Beijing milk stout with us.

Huo Huo tells us he owns it with an American named John. John is rock climber from Colorado. Yep, this all makes sense, now. The decor, the highlighting of brewing process, the incredible french fries (truly, the best I have ever had - EVER), the city's proximity to vast outdoor adventures. Welcome to Boulder.

When Geology Goes a Little Bonkers

Danxia geological park, an hour outside of Zhangye in the remote northern province of Gansu, became a destination on this trip because I liked the photos of it online. (A very reasonable Canadian couple I met a few weeks ago nodded in understanding, like this is the most practical motivation to go anywhere.)

The geopark is very proscribed in how you visit and what you can do there - namely, take a shuttles bus to a half-dozen stops and enjoy the scenery with hundreds of other people. The desire to melt away the crowds and walk in the mountains instead of look at them from the manicured fence railing was strong, but the seeing the place in the late afternoon and sunset light, and then again in the sunrise was a nice bit of wish-fulfillment.

[Click to scroll for photos.]

[Danxia geopark: Sptember 29, 2017]

Alternative Rating System For Hostels

The reviews on Hostelworld have been excellent guidance on the trip, steering us to incredible interesting, fun, helpful places at astonishingly low prices. Depending on the low, low price you're looking for, you will find a dramatic range of amenities or lack thereof.

Herewith, a rating system to supplement Hostelworld's, developed mostly by Andy and amended by me:

ONE-STAR: They provide you toilet paper, either in the bathroom or by handing you a roll when you check in.

TWO STARS: An en suite bathroom that has a shower curtain. The presence of shower curtains is elusive, which means the water from the shower from soaks the sink, toilet and everything else in the tiny room. This is an easy problem to solve, but apparently a problem that only annoys Americans?

THREE STARS: Reliable temperature control and reliable WiFi wth fast internet speeds.

FOUR STARS: A quality design aesthetic, comfortable places to hang out, and cats. Preferably sociable cats that let you pick them up and listen to stories of your own beloved cat who is back home in America, and who don't judge you or think this is weird.

FIVE STARS: Yurts. See above.

SIX STARS: A hostel manager who accompanies you in the back of a police car when you go to file a report when a pickpocket permanently separates you from your iPhone. (This service isn't necessarily advertised, but you'll be glad to discover it exists when you need it.) And then that same hostel manager comps you drinks from the bar and helps you throw a birthday celebration for your friend, whose still-present iPhone is now more interesting to you than ever.

Excellent hostel cat at Red Lantern House in Beijing.

Hua Shan: More Steep Hiking, Chinese Style

I wrote about hiking Huangshan earlier this month and Hua Shan, many hundreds of miles to the north of Huangshan and a short bullet train ride from Xi’an, is comparable in both challenge and terrain. Not an earthen hiking trail but stone stairs set into steep mountainsides. This time, we reversed our tram+hike strategy by hiking the 7 kilometers up, completing the mountaintop circuit of five peaks and taking the cable car down.

The massive West Peak, seen from North Peak.

Critical differences and benefits when comparing to Huangshan: Hua Shan is one of five sacred Taoist mountains, and there are temples dotting the trail and scattered across the cliffs. There were crowds here for sure, but nothing like Huangshan and zero loudspeakers on the hips of the few tour guides. The frequent ups and downs around the circuit still present a strong challenge, but it's easier to manage than the long continuous downhill and then uphill we chose at Huangshan.

Hua Shan’s five peaks are soaring cliffs of sandstone with stunning views of the valleys and mountains all around them. The rock is sandy colored and in some areas looks liquid, like it was poured from the heavens and took shape as these incredible exposed mountains. Of the five peaks, I like East and Central the best – the fewest people were there. Central Peak’s view wasn’t the most expansive but the temple there felt quiet and secluded. East Peak was one of the few areas on the mountain where we walked on the actual rocky mountain itself, instead specially installed stone steps, and as you stand looking out at the massive views you have low slung conifers at your back.

Temple on Central Peak.

A few bummers, intrinsic and extrinsic: I was still sick and hiking triggered a few violent coughing spasms – not pleasant for me or anyone around me, though Andy said it made me easy to find when we got separated. Also, there are few areas of Hua Shan that earn it the reputation as the “most dangerous hike in the world.” This includes a ‘plank walk’ of narrow wooden boards affixed to a sheer cliff, where walkers are given safety harnesses to dull the fear of nothing but air below you. Part of me is thrilled by this idea and part of me is repelled by the gimmick of it. That stretch of trail exists only to scare thrill-seekers – it serves no utility in getting you from one place to another. There can be moments in adventures that require a steel spine – crevasses must be spanned, the icy rivers must be fjorded. But this seemed like a carnival attraction to pay several yuan for a harness and meaningless bragging rights.

Chess Pavilion, seen from near East Peak.

On the trail, I met some Russians! They were assessing the start of the steep ladder climb through the 1,000 Foot Gorge - a set of nearly vertical stairs with chains on each for balance that sneaks up through a tight crevice in the rock. Frequently on this trip when people speak to me in Chinese, my impulse is to answer back in Russian. This time it was actually useful! Turns out they were from Belarus, a small group of older teenagers who were surprised but delighted I think to hear a familiar language from a stranger.

Vow belts and love locks frame the view from North Peak.

[Hua Shan: September 28, 2017]

Xi'an Should Have Been A Bust, But Wasn't

There are at least three reasons I could remember this metropolis in northern China with dim regret:

1. Rain. Constant, hard, torrential rain. For days.

2. A bad cold and deep cough persisted.

3. I lost my phone, probably to a pickpocket.

Despite these problems, I love Xi’an. When I travel I try to imagine, ‘Would I like living here?’ And Xi’an is a big yes.

The city is nine million people, but it feels so much smaller. Xi’an’s center (not its business district, though) is surrounded by a historic stone wall that’s withstood rival powers for centuries. At Xi’an’s geographic heart is a classic Chinese bell tower – just a few stories tall, a square, terraced building with a swooping slate-gray tiled roof. The galleries inside include a bell, obviously, but also fabulous murals depicting antique photos of the city, brightly colored scenes of people at work and play, and a massive drawing of runners taking off at the start of the 1/2 marathon that's run on the city wall itself. In the daytime, the balconies of the bell tower were a fun place to watch the traffic merge seamlessly on the rotary that encircles it: cars, bicycles, trucks and scooters all deftly merging and weaving across multiple lanes without incident. At night, the bell tower and nearby drum tower glowed with yellow lights that turned the red buildings a luminescent orange.

Sprawling northwest from the drum tower is the Muslim Quarter - part Middle Eastern souq, part midway at the county fair. Vendors hawk all manner of fried foods as people stroll, gawk and haggle. The carcasses of animals are butchered right alongside souvenir hawkers and women roasting walnuts. Several foot massage stalls had aquarium tanks on the floor in front of overstuffed recliners, where the patrons to soak their feet in while tiny fish nibble away the dead skin. Neon signs announce most of the stalls, but the bright lights are shrouded by leafy trees, creating a festive vibe. These are mostly pedestrian streets, but motorbikes and tiny trucks have no compunction about beeping their way through clogs of families and tourists. Tucked alongside this neighborhood is the Grand Mosque, careworn but still beautiful. Mosques can be incredibly peaceful and calming places to sit and rest and this one is no different. Just outside the old cement walls the city was full of noisy honking horns and yelling people, but inside the courtyard stood beautiful musty old buildings, damp with the day’s rain, trees, mossy gates and pavilions and few cats lounging around the fountains.

Xi’an is near the terracotta warriors, discovered in the 1970s and now world famous. I am still somewhat mystified that 2,200 years ago a paranoid/narcissistic emperor commissioned thousands of artistic clay sculptures and then intentionally buried them to protect his reign in the afterlife; and now we are digging them up and trying to put them back together.  (The army was buried facing east to survey the conquered land, and now in that general direction stands a McDonald’s.) The three excavation are active archaeology sites and seeing their work in progress was fantastic. Eavesdropping on a guide, I learned that maybe 30 percent of the site has been excavated, with decades more work to do.

The hostel we stayed at here played a huge role is my enjoyment of Xi’an. Staying put for several days in a cozy place was a treat. The morning our sleeper train pulled into Xi’an, we walked a half-hour through the rain to arrive at Han Tang Inn. We got our room immediately, and within an hour I’d had a hot shower was staring blissfully into a cup of coffee and eating a full breakfast in their comfortable lobby. Previous visitors had plastered the place with funny notes and drawings, and the blocky wood furniture gave it a rustic, solid feel.

One of the staff set out large sheets of rice paper, ink pots and brushes and taught several of us to write a few characters in Chinese calligraphy. While we learned to handle the brushes, the Canadians complained about their country’s politics, and the Britons complained about their country’s politics, and the Americans…. well, anyway.

My smartphone slipped from my raincoat pocket our first full day in Xi'an, either because I wasn't smart enough to keep track of it, or a pickpocket was smarter. The police and several sympathetic staff at the hostel told me the crush of extra travelers for the upcoming October 1 holiday make crimes of opportunity more likely. Emily, the manager of Han Tang Inn, came with me to the police station to file a police report, in the hopes that would ease the insurance reimbursement. It led to an interesting night that included a ride in the back of a police car, an hour surreptitiously observing the police in their offices, a good conversation afterward about how much Chinese people trust their police compared Americans trusting theirs. (She also comped us drinks back at the hostel bar to take the edge off the day and celebrate Andy's birthday.)

At one point, I was sitting in nondescript office while an officer examined my passport and visa (a scan of which popped up on the computer of the Federal Security Bureau office I had to visit the next day). Watching him, I felt the nervousness one feels in interacting with authority, even when you've done nothing wrong. My documents are in order, my visa is legitimate, there's nothing to be worried about. I remembered the debates about U.S. immigration and how when people are in the country illegally, they don't have the ability to report crimes against them. If anything was out of order with my visa, no waaay would I have tried to file a police report. But what if something more serious had happened?

The next day was a somewhat comical interaction with FSB bureaucracy trying to turn my official Chinese language police report into an English-language document. (At one point, a police bureaucrat had me sign a form stating that I lost my passport, and she seemed sheepish when Andy pointed out that's the wrong form.) I finally got the right documents from her, and she pointed to the bottom of the form where I should sign and date it: in English it read "Loser's signature." Indeed.

[Xi’an: September 25-28, 2017]

But Fun Things Happened In Beijing, Too!

The few days we allotted for Beijing were compressed even more by being sick, so my scant waking hours there read like a tourist's greatest hits:

Forbidden City: not so forbidden anymore, just pay this admission fee and join the masses who stroll the expansive grounds and gawk at the architectural remains of 500 years of Qing and Ming dynasties. The imperial palaces and outbuildings encircle wide plazas in the center, while the sides of the grounds are cloistered, narrow passageways.

[Click to scroll through pictures.]

Hutongs: In English, hutong is an alleys or side streets, and in Beijing there are neighborhoods of hutongs that take on personalities all their own. We spent a fun night strolling a hutong near Beihei Lake that had oddball shops, lots of cafes, and... lots of cats. A total win.

The Great Wall: and it is pretty great! It's not one contiguous wall, but many sections of wall that stretch across a wide expanse of northeast China. Some sections are precisely rebuilt and easy to access, others are untouched "wild wall" that intrepid hikers seek out. We hit up a section that is something in between - a huge tourist base draws multitudes there, but the wall itself was satisfyingly crumbly and deteriorating.

[Click to scroll through pictures.]

[Beijing: September 21-25, 2017]

That Time In Beijing When I Threw Up On The Street

There are unfortunate moments in any trip that can threaten the joy, and I've tried to cultivate an ability to look at un-fun situations as a neutral, future observer to make enduring them a little easier. And so on my first night in Beijing, when I found myself doubled over between a rickshaw and a Jetta on a crowded sheet and barfing up cucumber salad, I had three simultaneous thoughts:

1. They probably think the white girl is drunk.

2. Perhaps they think I'm just hocking up a massive loogie and spitting in the street, not uncommon here.

3. This will be very funny to me at some point, maybe as soon as tomorrow.

Allow me to back up, now: That morning I woke up in our sort-of dirty hostel in Tunxi and the sore throat that started the night before had blossomed into a head cold. By the time our bullet train arrived in Beijing that evening, my head was was full of snot and my eyes were tearing from the most painful sore throat I've ever had. A not-insignificant amount of space in my backpack is full of medicine that I lugged with me, so I wasn't too worried about being sick or getting treatment, I was mostly just feeling totally miserable and bummed.

We checked into a hostel, and I was deteriorating fast. Food, then sleep, then reassess. We walked through a pedestrian area that was crowded with sounds and people and smells - a sensory overload that made us understand why people say Shanghai may be the glossy future but Beijing is real China.

We choose a small, crowded noodle shop and wedged into wooden chairs at a wooden table, about 15 feet and several tables from the front door on the busy side street, not realizing yet that the distance and obstacles between me and the street would become important soon enough.

Have you ever had a sore throat that was so painful that it sent spasms of pain down your esophagus when you swallowed? The pain intensifies when you try to blow your nose, which you are now doing constantly, in a way that makes the productivity of your sinuses both impressive and horrifying. We ate a vinegary cucumber salad while waiting for noodles, and that triggered a cough/sneeze/esophogeal mutiny that turned my stomach over. I had just enough time to register, 'Oh shit, this is actually about to happen, isn't it?' I grabbed for the snot-soaked tissues in my pockets and tried to extricate myself from the blocky chairs and tables that penned me in, and rushed for the exit.

I paused momentarily, relieved I was at least outside now, but realized this street didn't offer a lot of options. I was trying to conceal myself anywhere as the salad came tumbling out in loud, heaving retches. I was loosely aware that an old man was watching from the next shop stoop, and that I needed to make sure I didn't get anything inside the rickshaw, and that the Jetta was really shiny and I should probably avoid splattering its fender, too.

I want to state clearly and proudly - this wasn't Delhi belly or Montezuma's revenge or the usual traveler's GI distress. I've eaten street food and fresh produce and brushed my teeth with tap water during this trip and have had zero issues. My head cold made me throw up. Ridiculous.

I got back to the table melted in misery. Andy looked at me with concern edged with interest. "Are you ok?"

"Um, I'm pretty sure, no."

I slept hard that night with the help of drugs, spent much time the next day deliberating if I should check myself into a nice hotel for three days of quarantined sleep and consider Beijing a lost cause. In the end, we switched hostels as planned, I slept for a day solid and put on my rally cap after that. It was definitely an uneven rally, punctuated with soggy Kleenex and growing a cough that wouldn't quit for the next week.

And you know what? None of this took the shine off of China for me. But Beijing will forever remind me of standing on a street with my hands on my knees and a puddle of cucumber on the cobblestones in front of me while thinking, "Huh, so this will be memorable."