The foothills are something even pictures cannot grasp, and my words certainly hold little power to contain them. Shrouded in mist they play hide and seek, with great, strong bodies that house intricate arteries of rivers and ribboning, dancing falls. They are a deep, untouched green, and they metamorphose into heavenly beasts; covered in eyes they always look at me. As I humbly place each one of my strides on their bones, I find gratitude in the muscle of Earth below me, and below the mountain, and below that. And how they launch me into the Heavens.
There is power here; the river rages and surges with it, the mountain quietly keeps it, the air pulls, passes and pours it. I am so small, and as I cross a wooden bridge or come face to face with a leaping cliff, I am reminded of it with clarity.
And step-by-step we climb, passing the humble homes of mountain dwellers who hike briskly in flip-flops and rubber boots. Cows and water buffalo moo in the uncomfortable rain, chickens peck pathetically, pausing to shake the water from their feathers and ruffle and re-ruffle themselves. A dog joins us, walking ahead and waiting, watching, perhaps protecting and caring for these bipedal strangers. Four children send warning shrieks from under their umbrellas to ward off the monkeys from their family's maturing corn. Three older, wrinkled, calloused, tanned men and women crush rocks with a small hammer. A bare-breasted woman with suckling child sit on their porch we so invasively pass, and many men and women of all ages carry baskets of greens on their backs, supported by a cloth strap that rests on their crown like a bandanna. To each of these we greet with our hands held together in prayer, Namaste, and they return it. From under their plastic coverings some of the friendlier ones say 'Pani! Pani!' with a smile on their face. Pani means water and they chuckle at our sopping state. I agree with them through tone. Yes, Pani. Tons of it.
It is monsoon season in Nepal; I have never been so soaked for so long. Some of the best gear is defeated by this onslaught. Wet to the core, we continue to climb to keep warm, and we make good time for it. The real enemy are those slimy suckers that come with the rain. Perched on leaves, trees, rocks leeches attach themselves to passing flesh. When we finally take off our shoes we have endlessly leaking wounds to attend to. A cheesecloth-covered ball of salt is our weapon in removing them as we climb, but some make it through all our defenses. When I finally remove one and kill it, I watch it bleed my own blood. How audacious.
But we finally make it to Hotel Milan high up in Ghandruk. If the clouds clear we will see the glorious snows of the Annapurna Himalayan Mountain Range. Those are the real beauties. In another season we could climb to the top, but monsoon season makes for snow-storms that are not to be reckoned with too audaciously--we wouldn't want the mountains to make us bleed our own blood, so we tread humbly. For now, we hope just for a peek.
As we dry and tend to wounds and eat a large lunch the mist and clouds pass and dissipate and we become more and more excited, anticipating what lies behind them. Across the valley a lonely structure manifests and I wonder what it could be, with nothing around it, the closest village half a cliff away, who lives there? What do they eat? How do they even get there? The mysteries of the Himalayas continue on...
And then, in the light of morning, when the clouds haven't yet had time to cover the hills, we finally see behind the veil, and oh!--what a change! Suddenly I'm even smaller. Those mountaintops I was so moved by, whose height I was so impressed with, and breadth in awe of--they become, well, hills. Monstrous, gorgeous, green and white--pure white--peaks have been towering above us all this whole time. So quickly my perspective changes. In just a small space between the creeping clouds I see the rising thrust of Fishtail and my hike, my view, my very self, have all shrunk. In the presence of giants we see ourselves as we ought.
But the sight is short lived. From over the hilltops comes the covering. It hugs the mountainside like a woolen blanket. Like a fleece is sits and contours to the shape of the rolling, jutting earth. Within minutes we can't even see the tops of the hills, our horizon is blurred out, and we are back to a world only meters wide and long. But I'm no bigger; I know now, and I cannot forget what greatness lies all around me: the peaks of the Annapurna.
No comments:
Post a Comment