Wonderlust

I know it doesn’t seem that way
But maybe it’s the perfect day…

If we’d only open our eyes
We’d see the blessings in disguise…

There’s gold in them hills
There’s gold in them hills
So don’t lose heart
Give the day a chance to start

Every now and then life says
Where do you think you’re going so fast
We’re apt to think it cruel but sometimes
It’s a case of cruel to be kind

There’s gold in them hills
There’s gold in them hills
So don’t lose faith
Give the world a chance to say…

A word or two, my friend
There’s no telling how the day might end
And we’ll never know until we see
That there’s gold in them hills

-Coldplay, “Gold in Them Hills”

Underestimating urgency, my inner General Custer misprioritizes.  With all due respect, why unduly focus on the view–am I a real estate prospector or a man with whimsical bowels, inner Mr. Custer?  Fumbling with a buckle, fumbling away precious seconds, the weight of the blunder hits.  I poop myself.  Premature ecrapulation in the woods.  The fine mountain view offers little consolation.

My hiking boxer shorts, an engineering feat of head-shaking disbelief, salve.  I marvel at their preparation for just such an occurrence.  Like a Senator’s right-hand man cleaning up after the honorable underage daughter’s DUI hit-and-run, or like a diaper, they handle this mess without a trace.  The “incident” turns out to be a watershed moment on a stunning 15 day trek of the Annapurna Circuit in the Nepalese Himalayas.

I won’t greatly linger on the before and after of the surprisingly fortuitous stomach illness.  It suffices to say that in the B.C. (Before Crap) era, I had pushed myself in my own speed challenge; I misguidedly looked to finish quickly.  Wiser in the A.D. (After Deuce–selected over two other viable “D” word contenders) era, I take a rest day and some antibiotics to beat down this all too common Nepali belly bug.

I am disappointed at first but it doesn’t last. I resolve to take in the cartoonishly unreal views, enjoy the mountain villages and their cuisine, forge relationships with the trekkers around me, and dance on the trails when the mood strikes.  Turns out I won’t blow up if I go under 55.  So I’ll need to rework my script for Speed 3.  I’ll start by recasting Sandra Bullock–a move that makes sense if we’re aiming for at least straight-to-video.  Fixing the plot redundancy/monotony, which the superficial context shift doesn’t address, takes on lesser priority than changing the heroine.

The rest day shifts who treks around me and shapes the experience. Among those with whom I connect are: Paul, a clairvoyant former professional triathlete (became a professional athlete mid-career essentially because he felt like it); Robert, a reprioritizing ex-CEO (who resembles a much smarter, skinnier Michael Moore); and Tammy, a curator who slyly lived rent-free undetected in her museum for a year (she never turned on the lights).

After a day’s walk, we sometimes talk over a pot of masala tea, apple-based baked-goods and a game of Rummy 500.  There’s plenty of time to get to know fellow trekkers.  One guy enters our midst wearing a Spock costume.  I tell him his group meets down the hall.  Lack of backpack, not the costume is the giveaway.  Live long and prosper, friend.  But be a pal and put down that half-eaten piece of chocolate apple crumble on your way out.  No, buddy, I don’t care that you are sick or that there are seven pieces left.

Of all the special people I meet, I gravitate towards Yanara.  We readily slip into trekking together.  Half-German, half-American, entirely international, Yanara is easy to be around.  When we stop at a particularly arresting viewpoint, neither of us speaks for half an hour.  This happens more than once.  With her, the shared natural silence far from equates with awkwardness.  We agree that speaking steals from the beauty.  When we converse, however, I am continually struck by her well-considered remarks, honest introspection and quick wit.  An aspiring writer, she reads me her work and blows me away with talent.  She stimulates my mind.

Perhaps more importantly, she hangs with my voracious mountain appetite and appears at least outwardly tolerant when she calls out that 70% of my conversation is food-oriented.  Well, Yanara, I refuse to stop spreading the word about that one piping-hot, oven fresh roll I slathered with butter in Yak Kharka.  I will also continue to shout from the rooftops that the biggest lesson I’ve learned on the Circuit is to spend more time in bakeries.  I question her definition of obsession anyway.  I conveniently neglect to tell her my 2009 New Year’s resolution was to eat more dumplings.  (Quit smoking or call your mom more if YOU like but I, for one, thrive on challenge.  Give more dumplings a shot in 2010.  Get the decade started right.)

Excitement, camaraderie, tension, and altitude build as we near Thorung-La pass.  Each day’s walk brings our informal group through new mountain villages, past changing but equally dramatic scenery as we get closer.  At 5416 meters (~18,000 feet), the pass is the highest point on the trek and the natural focal point.

Concerns about the weather and passability begin to dominate conversation, at least when I am not interjecting about food.  On the day before we are to attempt the pass, the weather clears altogether, with wonderful effect.  I undertake the day’s walk myself early in the morning.  I aim to guarantee beds at a guesthouse near the pass.  An empty trail suggests no one shares the concern.  A little over-eager but it grants me rare alone time.  Given that the Circuit suffers to some extent from over-exposure and commercialization, I cherish the moment.  I dance on the trail when the mood strikes.  The yak I pass are not up for a dance-off.  I’ve seen their moves and they couldn’t handle this.  Cute bells they wear though.  Ethan would be proud that I outdance the locals (Wonderlust: Spring Breakin’, Cabarete Boogaloo).

Pass day comes in many shapes and sizes but we all make it.  The mood among the group relaxes considerably afterward.  In the rearview, the thought of the pass no longer has the power to consume.  The return of roads on the Jomsom side of the circuit frustrates as jeeps, motorbikes and buses frequently elbow us aside in a cloud of dust.  Increased proximity to Marpha’s apples compensates.  I enjoy the best apple jam and apple juice I have ever tasted.  I deny obsession.  I take pictures of frothy apple juice mugs.

Yanara and I arrive in Pokhara, Nepal’s relaxed second city, post-circuit.  We feel compelled nearly immediately to head back out to a nearby mountain, Panchase.  Once there, we readily tack on an extra day.  I find even more Gold in Them Hills.  I further enjoy the blessing of meeting Yanara and sharing this experience with her.  And I tell all who will listen about hot buttered rolls and bakeries.  I become legendary at our Panchase guesthouse for plates consumed of Dal Bhat (rice, veggie curry and lentils), the Nepali local feature.  Downing Dal Bhat prodigiously, I note to myself that my stomach has held up well against bugs, the other local feature, since the “incident”.  Curious that it struck when it did and that it seemed such a downer at the time.  In case of a return bout, a fresh pair of my hiking boxer shorts stand ready as ever.  I feel fortunate to stand more accepting.

Annapurna Pics, Gallery 1

Annapurna Pics, Gallery 2

PS-the proprietor of the Panchase guesthouse picked up some of my scrapwork as I worked through this entry.  She innocently asked if the word “poop” was “peek.”  I corrected her.  Hilarity ensued.

PPS-Yanara believes you can tell a lot about a city by the heart of its pigeons.  Amsterdam and Rome are the worst because their pigeons have no sense of personal space.

PPPS-I have enjoyed all four of my barber shaves in Nepal. (Wonderlust: Barber Shop Shaves)

PPPPS-Call me a jerk.  I blatantly violated carry-in, carry-out policy with the boxers I left behind.  I think the hiking Gods carved out a loophole for my situation.

PPPPPS-A Rumi poem, “Who Makes These Changes?”:

Who makes these changes?
I shoot an arrow right.
It lands left.
I ride after a deer and find myself
Chased by a hog.
I plot to get what I want
And end up in prison.
I dig pits to trap others
And fall in.

I should be suspicious
Of what I want.