Project Himalaya diary | Bob's Manaslu & Nar-Phu diary

To Khorta Besi

We decide to pack up, walk on and hope to have a chance to dry some things when we stop around midday. The cliffs and waterfalls today are even more spectacular than yesterday. We round a turn in the trail and take a long lunch-break by a rocky cascade, spreading some of our things out on the dry rocks in the sun -- but not much drying takes place. We’re all feeling rather soggy, and the sun is beginning to go behind clouds. So we continue on, hiking through thick undergrowth until, by mid-afternoon, we climb up a steep hill to our campsite by a school. There’s room to do qigong -- schoolchildren flocking around to ogle us -- before the rain, once again, sends us to our tents.

to Tatopani, Dhoban

I decide to carry a full pack today, carrying all my wet gear, in the hopes that I’ll find time at lunch to do some drying. Up until now we have had drizzle or rain in the mornings and late afternoons, and since at lunchtime the porters who have our gear are usually behind us by an hour or so -- they’ve been lagging a bit all trip -- I’m concerned some of my down gear may be getting sad if not actually moldy.

We start off by the river, and soon have a delightful time walking through little calm eddies of the river. The cold water feels refreshing to our sweaty bodies: we still haven’t gained enough altitude to be out of the heat and humidity of the middle hills, we’re still down around 1800 meters. We go through a series of villages and by lunchtime are in Tatopani where the entrance of the village, besides being heralded by the usual meeting tree, also has a fountain with water from warm springs pouring forth in welcome. A wash makes us all feel better, and there’s even time to dry a few things. Then across the river, onwards and upwards: I spy a temple considerably above us on a hill, but our way leads forward to Dhoban. Just past the village is a level spot where we’d intended to camp, but a French group has gotten there ahead of us. We retreat back to the little group of houses and tea stalls which constitute the village, and “camp” on the paved trail as night falls, spreading out a tarp to shelter us above. There is a madwoman in the town who grins, grunts, and groans at us, going into and out of the teahouse, affording amusement to villagers and, in a good-natured way, to trekkers and crew. Once again we hang things up to dry, once again are foiled by rain descending immediately thereafter.

To Philim, Eklai Bhaati.

Back and forth across the river we go, mostly ascending, beginning to feel we are gaining a bit of height and getting out of the worst of the oppressive heat. The path continues heading up even when going through the town we stop in for lunch, so we retreat to a thatched roof with a level floor, benches, and a hand loom. Sun is out, and my camera seems dry but nonfunctional. A village woman sits down at the loom to work: it’s fascinating to see her work the shuttle with hands and feet, making a brilliantly-colored carpet.

After lunch onward through towns festooned with Maoist slogans. The local Maoist “representative” negotiates a fee for our passage: one for the trekkers (about $75 for the four of us), one for the crew. At Joel’s asking, he not only gives us a receipt but also allows us to take his picture in case we need to verify to other Maoists that we’ve already paid our dues; however, this is the first and last Maoist we’ll see on our trip, and he’s an amiable enough fellow.

Past the town of Jagat we climb up by the river, then over a steep rockfall which has only sky behind it. Reaching the top, the unfolding view is magic: a wide flat valley with river flowing through it and snow peaks in the distance. It’s like emerging from jungle into Shangri-la, and all of us are ecstatic. This is the place where Joel, on a former trek with a difficult client, was accused by the client of being so happy he must obviously be on drugs. The drugs here are the mountain views: while there are no ice falls or 8000 meter peaks, something about the lay of the topography, the openness after days of dense vegetation, the clarity of the sky and the sound of the river spilling in a waterfall down to the lowlands, lifts the spirit and I feel drunk on the beauty.

It would be a wonderful place to camp, but we’re planning to go on a bit to Philim. We find, again, that the French group has preceded us and taken up the only camping place, so we continue on until we find what looks like an adequate, if not particularly nice, spot at Eklai Bhaati. What looks a bit drab, lumpy and dirty in the light, though, becomes magical by night: we are graced by fireflies that dance before us for an hour until, entranced and hypnotized, we drop off to sleep.

To Bihi Phedi

Going from 2000 to 3200 meters today, it finally begins to feel like the mountains. It’s pleasant walking, and I’m feeling strong (I have, after all, had a month’s trek at altitude in Ladakh behind me). I tend to outpace my friends, leaving plenty of time for walking meditation, chanting, and solitary enjoyment.

By the end of the day Joel and I have arrived at the only feasible camping spot for some distance. We walk down to it and are told it is “reserved” for the French, who are behind us. Joel becomes angry, and tells the sirdar from the French group that one cannot “reserve” camping spots. Besides which, there really is room for everybody. The altercation looks like it will turn ugly, until Joel notices a tent pitched at one end of the flat space and sees -- friends! Robin and Judy are sitting bemused beneath an experimental lightweight tent with two other friends & trekkers when they recognize Joel and vice versa. This makes things easy: we start to pitch our tents on the site “belonging” to Robin and Judy. While this is going on the rest of our trekkers and, slowly, our crew arrive; so does the French group. The sirdar for the French group is still angry. I try to defuse the situation by going around offering chocolate treats to French trekkers, crew, and of course our own group: we manage to settle down to mutual coexistence if not actual friendship. At night both crews unite to sing and dance -- great fun, at first, but going on a little longer than sleep would like.

to Lihi (Ghap?)

Another day of walking and gaining elevation. The weather was a bit overcast, but this time it threatened snow, not rain. I got into a village (Ghap?) a bit before the others and peeked into the gompa with its huge prayer wheel. Soon one, then two, then seemingly all the children of the village were gathering around me to stare and play. I began singing a children’s song, pointing at the children to chime in with the verse, which they did with glee. “Eddie-kootcha-catcha-kara-toesn’-earsn’-toesn’-nova-samma-kamma-wakee-Brown” was a particular favorite. The sounds came out as nonsense, which of course is what they are. Generally, adults in Himalayan villages are too busy taking care of survival chores and so don’t play with their children; any adult offering playtime is eagerly gobbled up with great delight, which in this case was certainly mutual!

to Rho (Sama Gaon)

A cloudy day, with cold beginning to bite. Steady uphill through trees which become sparser and sparser as we ascend; evergreens are beginning to replace the deciduous varieties. Once up over the crest, there is a wide meadow sloping upward before us. I’m ahead of the others, and get a brief glimpse of Manaslu before the grey clouds descend, and as I walk through the outlying fields of the village snow flurries turn to a heavy, wet snow. Within ten minutes, it seems, the ground is covered. It gives a magical cast to the village, barely visible ahead through the mist, its Buddhist stupa signaling its outermost gate. Joel catches up with me and soon we’re tramping through the narrow streets, which are almost deserted (most sensible villagers being indoors during the snowstorm). Suddenly, off to our left, one of our porters appears, beckoning us to follow a fence upward from the main village street, and stagger into the building which will allow us to hunker down and await better weather. One room for cooking, one for trekkers, and one for crew. The rooms are bare, rough wooden floors warmed by some thick throw rugs, but there is enough electricity for a bulb to cast its yellow light as we stamp off the snow, huddle together for warmth, and enjoy the comfort of looking out on the falling snow. Thick snow blankets make any snow scene look rather like a Currier and Ives setting, though tomorrow, when the villagers and mountains come out, we’ll know we’re not in Kansas. Besides our snow-wet gear, there is still some dampness from the Great Flood to be aired out, so our strategies for what to hand on which of the wall hooks takes a bit of time to sort out. Hot drinks, good company, sleepy from snow-lullabyes, it’s easy to fall off to sleep -- not before Joel, with his customary optimism, says “it’ll be a beautiful day tomorrow!”

Which, as it turns out, it is. Brilliant clarity in the morning, and there is Manaslu in its glory. We take our breakfast outside on the tarp laid over the snow-filled yard, and look out over the fence to Mansalu’s 8000 meters. Somehow, unlike Everest or, say, Kanchenjunga, its grace somehow belies its height. There’s a team climbing it: a helicopter drops off a load (or makes a rescue) during this break in the weather.

We decide to take a rest day, paying the porters to do some of our laundry and hang it up to dry. (Joel advises us, though, that Nepalese don’t usually wring out their clothes before drying them, so that if we want them to actually dry we better attend to that ourselves). We then take off in our separate but converging ways to explore the town. On a small hill a bit further ahead there’s a temple-monastery which initially we seem to have all to ourselves. The temple provides a place for retired monks and nuns: we can see their vegetable gardens neatly laid out even through the snow cover. Eventually an old toothless monk appears and opens the main temple area -- about the size of an average living room -- where we can take off our boots and pay respects to Buddha. Even though the middle hills have been primarily Buddhist (unusual in Nepal), somehow this mountain temple feels more like we’ve entered the realms of form and emptiness. We loiter a bit outside the temple and the old monk is garrulous (even though we do not share any common language); later on, that night, we’ll see him cavorting over rakshi or some such spirits. I do think, for all its outward solemnity, Buddhism is largely about enjoying one’s self moment by moment!

After lunch, we go house by house in the village to see if any local artifacts are available. Joel would like to buy a present for Kim, and several of us (myself included) have our eyes on the silver belts worn by the village women. There aren’t any “shops” -- this route is still relatively isolated and unvisited -- so any artifacts we buy (knives, belts, harnesses) will be off the waists or saddles where they’re currently in use. The women, whose jewelry express their family status, are reluctant to part with anything before consulting with their husbands (who, it turns out, will be quite eager to sell for the extra cash). We have some fun with the kids in the village, following us around.

Allison and I walk back toward Lihi where there is a particularly beautiful ridge-line, obscured yesterday by the snowstorm. While still partway there, the clouds gather and snow begins again. It keeps up through the night, and all the next day, providing an excuse to rest in our various ways -- meditating, reading, playing chess, chivying each other, stoking our energy for the heights to come.

To Samdo

The next day dawns clear again. The snow is pristine, and begs for snowball fights and snow sculptures. Even the porters and crew get into the spirit, so there’s a free-for-all frolic. We ascend to Samdo, a short walk with the lovely crunching sounds of untrod snow compacting beneath us. Arriving at Samdo, we find Robin and Judy already ensconced at the inn just off the trail on the edge of town. Joel also knows the lodgekeeper, and we spend some time in his kitchen drinking tea and chatting. We pitch our tents on a level expanse just next to the lodge, looking back toward Sama Gaon and simply spectacular views.

Joel has mentioned that his friend Clint Rogers has been living in Samdo for several months, doing research (sponsored by Cal Berkeley) on its economics and customs [see Clint's email home about his experiences, including a tape worm]. I’ve met Clint very briefly once in Kathmandu, and am eager to get the “inside story” from a fellow Californian. It turns out, though, Clint will not be available for a few hours because the villagers have asked him to kill a yak.

Recently one of the village yaks was injured. It won’t be able to survive, and the villagers would like to be able to butcher it for its meat and hide. Being Buddhist, they are prohibited from doing so. Nothing stops them, though, from asking a non-Buddhist to do so. Enter Clint who, living for the past few months with one village family, is in no position to refuse despite the fact that his graduate studies have hardly imbued him with the skills required to slit a yak’s throat. That’s how he’s spending his day, though -- we don’t see him until suppertime, when he is glad to join us for some food which is neither yak nor his mainstay tsampa.

Clint fills us in on some of the local history. The people of Samdo historically were Tibetan, and part of the treaty with China specifies their right to have access to this village and to go back and forth between it and Tibet. They also have a running feud with the villagers of Sama Gaon, which sometimes leads to very non-Buddhist rock-throwing when grazing and growing rights are disputed.

Before dinner, Allison and I had time to take a walk through Samdo village, up a little ways into the surrounding hills. The sun is setting, and the views of Manaslu and its subsidiary ridges back the way we came, the peaks above and the glacier in front of us are so stunning, we embrace each other with delight. The way back through the dusk is a bit more down to earth: the narrow streets that thread their way between the old, grey stone houses are caked with slush and yak dung, not easy to avoid sinking into either as we make our way back to our tents and our supper with Clint.

The following day we’re planning to walk to Tibet. Joel did this the previous year, going east along the valley that’s still an hour or two away up the trail toward the pass. Clint has told us, though, that we can go directly east from Samdo to the Tibet border. He checks with the family he’s living with, who tell him it should take about two hours. So we have a leisurely breakfast and don’t set off until mid-morning.

The first hour or so retraces the short hike Allison and I took the previous day. Then it’s steeply up a rather faint trail to a shepherd’s camp and corral. It takes us rather longer than expected, a good two hours just to here, in part because once we surmounted the hill the snow became deep and soft. Clint and I arrive at the corral first, rest for a bit, and decide to head on to Tibet. We know the local people go about twice as fast as we do, but Clint and I are both strong hikers, and after all his friends did say it was only two hours -- it couldn’t be more than another two, could it?

As it turns out, it could. With almost every step we sink thigh-deep, and the way is constantly up. The others decided to turn back when they reached the corral, and perhaps if either Clint or I were alone we’d turn back as well, but since we have companionship, we trudge on. It is fun to be going some miles through completely untouched snow. The weather is fine, and each ridge is a seducer in classic ridge fashion -- the pass “can’t” be that much further.

Well, it is, and we don’t get to the pass until around 4 pm. It’s fun to stand with one foot in Nepal and one in Tibet while we relieve ourselves. We can’t stay long, though, we’re clearly not going to be back before dark. So we fuel up on some Power Bars and plunge-step our way down, wishing the snow would be a bit harder so we could glissade. Then retracing our steps, reaching the corral around nightfall. The way down the hill to the village -- probably no more than 1000 feet down and maybe a mile or two in distance -- is a bit tricky to navigate in the dark, given the faintness and iciness of the trail, but there’s no real difficulty. Our sirdar meets us partway down, and we reach our tents and a warm dinner by 8 pm or so. Clint stops by the family where he stays, and later comes to our tents and asks how they could have said it was a two-hour trip. “Two hours by horse,” comes the reply.

To Dharmasala high camp

A short, spectacular day. Late rising, goodbye to Clint, and an hour’s walk past the village and the trail taking a different way east toward Tibet brings us to Larkya Bazaar: two men sitting on blankets, selling local artifacts ranging from jewelry to the wood blocks used to print flying horses on prayer flags. Then steeply up to the hillside camp of Dharmasala, near the terminal moraine of the glacier coming down from the Larkya La. There’s another group here, but plenty of room to settle down and drink in the views. Finding a truly level spot to do qigong isn’t so easy, but Allison and Ben join me for warm-ups outside our tents, after which I find some level ground outside the stone building housing our crew, who watch bemused.

Larkya La to Bintang

We leave camp fairly early in the morning, hoping to have good weather over the pass, which is somewhere between 4910 and 5115 meters. We start by descending a bit where the trail runs across a frozen lake: Joel and Ben amuse themselves by throwing stones out and down onto the ice, hearing the sharp “crack” resound echoed by the hills. Some of the others are going slowly, and from here the trail goes steeply up. The glaciers look so close beyond the ridge behind the lake that I decide to leave the trail and hike around the lake on its ridge, rejoining others at the pass. What I have not bargained for is thinness of the ridge, which has a sharp drop-off on its hidden side which faces the glaciers: at times I have to straddle it, and rocks break off beneath my feet. Once past that point, the snowfield leading to the pass is soft and deep, and I frequently plunge in to my thighs. I have an un-looked for reward, though: at one point I see some animal tracks and, following them, a huge, five-toed footprint of human shape. Given that this is considerably off the trail, and I’ve seen no other prints, the only explanation I can find for the footprint is that it’s yeti. Hard to believe, but it certainly doesn’t look like a bear’s. Now is one of the few times I curse having no camera.

Once past the snowfields, rejoining the trail proper, it turns icy, but putting on my crampons I’m able to make short of the remaining distance and meet the others where they’ve been waiting -- somewhat chilled -- at the top of the pass. I’ve been to lots of passes in my Himalayan sojourns, but this has to rank as one of the most spectacular -- perhaps the most spectacular. Beyond us the pass drops steeply down to a glacier, and past that glacier the peaks rise up, uninterrupted, for thousand of meters: most of them look 7000 meters in height (e.g. Himlung Himal), and of course there is Manaslu (8163m) itself and the 8026 meter Annapurna, which will dominate the next few days, beyond.

Descending, the route is treacherously slippery and steep. I’m glad I have my crampons, and feel for my friends who slide and fall, catching each other as they descend. Eventually we reach a path running by the glacier below us, which cracks and booms in the afternoon sun-melt. There is a grassy spot where we could camp, but to make up for a lost day (combination of slow porters and weather) we continue to head down to Bintang. Gradually trees start to re-appear, evergreens mossy or bearded with hoarfrost. As the light fades, the way levels out to a broad valley; the mist is thick and hides any views past 50 yards or so, but there are (very) rustic lodges -- really just deserted houses - with some beautiful sisters tending them; a large trekking group is camped there. Our cook greets us with hot chocolate -- though no marshmallows! -- and instant noodles to warm our chilled bones.

In the morning, the sun and clear skies reveal the ablation pastures are bound on the south-southeast by forests with Manaslu rising beyond them; north, behind us, rise the peaks of the pass we’ve come from. What was cold and forbidding in the dusk is now a glorious place we’d like to linger, and we’re not eager to come back to the relatively crowded trails of the Annapurna circuit: but John has a plane to catch, and we have a new trekker, Eva, to meet. So we head down, consoled by promises we’ll be staying in a lodge tonight, with actual beds and hot water.

The trip down has its own rewards and challenges. On the one hand, the woods are lovely, dark, and deep. After a week or so in the barren highlands, its comforting to find moss and unfrozen streams. The quality of green light is similar -- and just as impossible to capture -- as the light in the forest I traversed with Clem, below Jannu in the Kanchenjunga region. On the negative side, the constant down, down, down is hard on the knees, and my old nerve injury is paining my leg. We stop to rest at a small village (Thonje), knowing the Annapurna lodges are not far; we reach them by late afternoon, and find Robin and Judy there before us. Our lodge is a bit further on, and though we promise to join Robin and Judy for a late-night party, once we arrive at our lodge we are seduced by having an actual (gasp) BED to sleep on. The promised hot water is not to be found, but there is a room warmed by a stove, and company, and a beery salute to John, who will be leaving us the next day.

To Koto

It's odd to be walking along such a broad, well-stomped trail, and to see Snickers and Mars bars for sale in the little shops along the way. It’s a pleasant enough walk through villages and passing Israeli trekkers (who seem to be the main travelers here). As we near Koto, I look off to my right and, between two hills, see a narrow gorge along a river: this will be the trail we take to Nar and Phu tomorrow. Gyaljin, our sirdar, walking with us, looks over in that direction and says, “the gate is open.”

Koto itself is nondescript, a typical checkpoint town. It’s good to meet Eva, our trekking companion who has flown in from Maine just a few days ago. Originally from Eastern Poland, she is an avid hiker but somewhat worried about acclimatizing quickly enough, given how the rest of us have had time to let our blood thicken. Night comes quickly and we wander through town; at one shop Allison buys me a notebook -- I’ve been without paper or pen for two and a half weeks, but now won’t have any excuse to not be jotting down my impressions!

To Dharamsala 3230m on the Nar/Phu trail

“The gate is open.” A difficult day to describe, lacking spectacle yet so splendorous it caused us to halt, again and again, and marvel at what we came to call “the mot beautiful trek in the world.” Perhaps it was the contrast from what had gone before: neither high snowy barrens nor lodge-cluttered byway. Rather, a continuous ascent through a narrow valley with its river running through it: pine trees, birches turning yellow with fall color, dry leaves and pine needles underfoot rustling. Gorges, a wooden bridge, a triangular naked summit to one side, a snow peak in the distance. Past the bridge a hot spring to discover. Rapids cascading to one side, then another, then right beneath us, drowning out all distractions. A cave sheltering us for lunch, light filtering through the branches, a sole local plaiting reeds by the cave entrance. Wind, sun, shade, woods. Finally the approach to the fields of Dharamsala, approached behind a waterfall guarding its entrance. At one point I felt so filled will joy I turned to Joel and said, “I have no desire to die. But if I died now, I’d feel I’d been blessed with enough happiness to fill a lifetime -- I have no need of any more.”

To Kiyang, 3800m

After yesterday’s wonders, I decided to keep silence today. This left me free to enjoy the steep ascents, the long level stretches and wide views, dabbed with autumn reds and yellows. We passed through abandoned Khampa villages -- this whole area had been used as refuges for groups of bandits who wanted to avoid taxation or usurpation by the various governments that contended over the area. [Jamie says; probably Khampa guerrilla camps for fighting the Chinese when they 'peacefully liberated Tibet"]. The villages bore the marks of their habitation in the cleared fields, now grown over, and punctuated by dwarf pines. Glacial streams poured down from the snouts of the moraines below hanging glaciers. Hiking on ahead of the others gave me a couple of opportunities to sit meditation for a while, meditating on the sounds of wind and water (and whatever jingles ran through my head). Words or photos cannot grasp the inexpressible, and this is what restores wonder. Gradually Annapurna I appeared behind us, and the ridge leading up to Annapurna II. To our right and overhead were snow domes with ice falls tumbling below. Dusk found the moon peeking over snow-dappled mountains. A supper of curry potatoes, potato pancakes, spamburgers, and tuna-vegetable momos; an opportunity to do qigong facing Kiyang peak across the field from our tents.

To Phu

Descending sharply to the river, we follow a trail through a barren gorge similar to what one sometimes sees in Ladakh. A camping spot by the river is marked by a kata and a Buddha inscribed in the stone, then a long flight of steep stairs to a trails that snakes along until it meets the river again where the stream bisects a guardian stone pillar, perhaps fifteen stories tall. High above is the gate to Phu. Along the way, an opportunity for a good long conversation with Gyaljin, our sirdar. He has a cough which sounds tubercular, and I’m worried for him; but he insists he’s OK and plans to continue from this trek to the next one with no break in between -- he has a family to support.

Once through the gate, there is a magical view of a Tibetan valley and ancient village, “more Tibetan,” says Joel, “than any village remaining in Tibet under the Chinese.” To my right a herd of Pashmina goats leaps down what seems an impossibly steep slope, but their footing is sure as they cross the trail and continue down to the river while the old alpha male watches us with baleful eyes. We pass an old ruined fort, perches on the small summit of a vertical pillar which seems to have no visible access. There is a triangular snow peak in the distance and the shoulder of a vast snowy peak at my back. Ahead, to the left where two streams meet, is a row of ancient chortens. Passing them on the way to the village. I can see caves up high in the hillside on my left; presumably they are meditation caves for solitary hermits. Reaching Phu village proper, the fields are bare and dusty, scoured by the strong winds of the Tibetan Himalaya. The village houses are stacked on top of each other, winding up the hillside. To escape the dusty field and the grit of the glacial till by the river, we camp on the roof of one of the houses. The “street” leading up to it is so steep it takes an effort to navigate it without hiking poles. Exploring through the village, there are views out to everywhere. Across from us another hill rises, crowned by a Buddhist temple. It seems we are on the roof not only of a house, but of a world.

Two days in Phu

After breakfast, the sun is out and, with the day free, it’s time to catch up on laundry. At the bottom of the hill, where the trail comes in to the village, there’s a water pump -- convenient for laundry but boy, is the water cold. Then back up to tie a line up and hang the laundry to dry in the stiff breeze, hopefully before the temperature plunges back down below freezing.

Joel has already set off for the gompa. Past the village, down the hill, cross the bridge over the river, then steeply up the next hill to the top. This is one of the oldest and most venerated temples in the region, and people come from far away to bring offerings to, and receive blessings from, the lama Sonam Rimpoche. Joel and I meet his grand-daughter in the little courtyard outside the main temple, and she brings us in and with her rudimentary English translates for us. We sit down behind a table, and the Rimpoche offers us Tibetan tea (yak butter and salt). Rimpoche comments on my sitting full lotus, and I explain I belong to a sangha and offer the greetings of Berkeley Zen Center. I also try to explain about qigong, and facing the altar I demonstrate a bit of the opening form, to the Rimpoche’s bemusement. The Rimpoche puts on a cassette tape of Buddhist chants, and gives us his blessings and each of us some special gifts: a necklace he has woven and embedded a charm, and some seeds which can be brewed for a tea for spiritual and physical health. He also shares some of his photos, and (through his grand-daughter) speaks of his interest in conservation.

After our audience with the lama we explore the temple and do a kora (circumambulation) of the grounds. Perched as it is on the top of the hill, it commands views of the village and the surrounding peaks and glaciers.

After lunch back at the tents, I decide to wander over to the ridge directly east of us. Back down and across the river on a narrow plank, up to the trail on the opposite side which I follow for a bit toward the Pangri glacier, then striking up the western slopes of the ridge which faces the village. The wind has picked up, and the goat-tracks lead up tussocks of grass which gradually give way to patchy snow and ice. By the time I get to a vantage point at around 4600 meters the clouds have come in to conceal any view, and the light is fading. I descend back to the main trail and, even though it’s dusk, don’t anticipate any problems following it back to the village, especially since some of the villagers are on the trail ahead of me. They outpace me, though, and I lose them in the gathering darkness. The trail splits, and re-forms, and splits and divides again and again until there are myriad paths. I know where I want to go, I can see the lights of the village ahead, but there’s a deep and swift glacial river between me and the village, and finding the small plank bridge takes me a good hour. By now it’s completely dark, and though I don’t anticipate difficulty finding the main bridge at the foot of the village, it’s so dark that visibility is just a couple of feet. I stumble around, and finally do find the bridge, but I’m below it. Foolishly I try to clamber up the bank; a stone I am pulling on gives way and strikes me a glancing, though painful, blow as I fall. Chastened, I make my way by trail back to the second bridge and arrive back at camp by 7:30, in time for a late supper.

The next day is a good one to sleep in for a while, waiting until the sun has taken some of the chill out of the air. After breakfast we all go our variously ways to spend the day as we please. I decide to set off for Himlung base camp, where there’s a climbing party. I re-trace my steps of the previous day, but this time turn to cross the glacier. Like most Himalayan glaciers, it looks more like a pile of rubble than a gleaming mass of ice, but the ice and its pools are there, below the loose screen and dirt sloughed off hills by their slow growth, the snowmelt and the fierce wind.

As I’m crossing the glacier, two young horsemen come by on their way to Himlung base camp. They whistle me over to them and insist I mount one of their horses. It’s fun to join their party, but I’m no equestrian, and after 15 minutes I’ve had enough. We don’t share languages, but have fun communicating after our own fashion, and I give them a whistle, compression stuff sack, and some snacks. They chivvy me a bit, asking for my hat, or monocular, but it’s all good natured. Then they follow me for a bit until base camp is in view, several miles off, at which point they realize they need to get going. I climb the glacial moraine for a view, and it’s fantastic, with Himlung spiring up and the Kangaru ridge beyond. Oh, for a camera! But the wind is cold (26ºF) and the clouds are gathering, so I don’t linger. On my way back to camp, in the daylight, I see just what a maze the trails were which confused me the previous night. I’m back in camp by 3:30, but very tired, mostly from battling the bitter wind.

To Junam

Time to leave Phu, but before doing so, the elderly mother of one of the villagers is in considerable pain, and Joel has told her I’m a doctor who might be able to help. I agree to stop by, and we go to their house, stooping to get in the door and enter the dark room. The old woman has the record of her treatment in Kathmandu six months prior - she had a tubercular necrosis of the hip joint and has been in pain ever since. The nearest Tibetan healer is several days’ hike away, there are no herbs or medicines available in the village, and a Western doctor would require Kathmandu or Pokhara -- impractical. What to do in such a case? They are looking for a pill, but giving her pain medication would only be good for however long the amount lasted. So I prescribe some qigong exercises good for the hip joint, urge her to exercise, show her some massage, and suggest tato pani (hot water) and capsaicin as palliatives. I give her some ibuprofen, but urge her to use it sparingly, since she’d run out quickly.

Leaving the village, I want to explore the meditation caves on the hillside at the outskirts. The others have gone on ahead, but Gyaljin accompanies me. It’s a difficult scramble up loose scree and rotten rock, but I’m excited at seeing ancient hermitages. At one point Gyaljin goes before me and tosses down a rope attached to some wooden support, left there by some old monk I think. Eventually, with an effort, I manage to get up to the lip of the cave, and looking inside is....bupkes! (little nanny goat shit). And nothing else. What we all took to be meditation caves turn out to be shelters for goats and goat herders. A good laugh -- I’ll be sure to tell my fellow-trekkers of the mystical golden treasure I’ve found.

We backtrack along our prior trail, and though it’s beautiful, I’m tired from my hikes of the previous two days. There’s a steep hike up to Junam from the river, and then we camp in the pines. It’s lovely to be away from the dust of the village, and to have a soft level place to do qigong. It starts to snow lightly, just enough to make me feel snug in my tent. We find Robin and Judy with their friend Pat also encamped there, and I give him some things for his headache and stomach problems. During the night, though, I have the worst case of the runs I’ve ever had on a trek: details too gross to mention. Perhaps that yak butter tea, though blessed by the Rinpoche, needs a Tibetan stomach to fully appreciate it.

Manaslu & Nar-Phu trek

Kathmandu again

Beginning the trek

To Soti Khola

To Khorta Besi

to Tatopani, Dhoban

To Philim, Eklai Bhaati.

To Bihi Phedi

to Lihi (Ghap?)

to Rho (Sama Gaon)

To Samdo

To Dharmasala high camp

Larkya La to Bintang

To Koto

To Dharamsala 3230m on the Nar/Phu trail

To Kiyang, 3800m

To Phu

Two days in Phu

To Junam

To Nar

Nar

Over the Kang La (5322) to Ngawal

To Manang

To Thorung Phedi

Thorung La 5400m to Muktinath-Ranipauwa

To Jomsom

To Kathmandu