The upward Journey at a glance

The distance from Lukla to Everest Base camp is about 60km and at sea level could be comfortably covered in a day or two. Our itinerary however would allow for 8 days including two full rest days. 

After our first night in Phakding we continued northeast up the Dudh Khosi valley to Jorsalle.  Here, at the confluence of the Duhdh and Bhote rivers, the valley narrowed and we crossed a towering gorge by means of a steel rope bridge strung 200m above the river.  For the last few hours of that second day we ascended 600m through a fragrant Blue Pine and Juniper forest to Namche Bazaar, trading hub of the Solu Khumbu.  The terraced town of Namche nestles amidst such mountainous splendor that, when the time comes to continue the trek, one is reluctant to lay aside its relative comforts.  As the nerve center of the trekking and mountaineering industry, it is the last outpost of civilization and offers a feast of comforts and distractions – not least of which are its pubs and bakeries that serve first-rate food.  Namche is a beehive of stone staircases and secret back alleys that contain a treasure trove of souvenir stores, outfitting depots and bookshops.  We spent two nights in a place called the Yak Hotel, an establishment that would turn out to be sheer luxury compared with what was to follow.  The acclimatisation walk included, amongst other things, a visit to the newly opened Tenzing Norgay Memorial as well as the Everest View Hotel that overlooks the Khumjung valley. 

Nighfall over Namche Bazaar, trading hub of the Solu Khumbu

Tenzing Norgay Memorial - behind are Everest (left) Lhotse (centre) and Ama Dablam

Our rest day behind us, we continued northeast and, following a lunch break at the confluence town of Phunki Tenga, crossed the river again to begin a soul destroying 400m climb to the monastery settlement of Tengboche.  The Monastery here is more than 500 years old and entrance is permitted both to its courtyard and its ornate sanctuary.  Here we removed our shoes and sat quietly in the chilly, dimly lit interior as the monks, clad in maroon gowns, performed their priestly duties before a brightly decorated altar. 

The Monastery Town of Thyangboche

On the Fifth day we descended through a primeval Rhododendron forest into the icy depths of the Imja khola valley crossing the river on a makeshift bridge – a substitute for a much bigger one destroyed in a recent avalanche.  With the crossing came another climb, this time to Pangboche and then Dingboche (4410m) a town located at the foot of Ama Dablam (6856m) in the east and a stone’s throw (or so it seemed) from the towering south eastern walls of Lhotse (8516m) and Nuptse (7861m).  Dingboche is a forlorn place – devoid of any meaningful vegetation, its people scraping a modest living out of the rock-strewn moonscape mostly by farming root vegetables and breeding yaks.  I did not relish spending two nights there but took full advantage of a rest day hike that took us to a scenic viewpoint at 4900m.  Apart from the thrilling panoramas, I was heartened that I’d coped well with the altitude and any lingering doubts about the road ahead were dispensed with.

Looking down to Dingboche

On the seventh day the trail turned sharply to the northwest and continued up the Lobuche Khola valley, home to some of the trek’s most spectacular scenery.  In the south towered three +6200m mountains the slopes of which plunged dramatically into the yawning expanse of the valley’s floodplain.  After the welcome undulations of high alpine meadows we groaned at the prospect of another climb – this time a 300m ascent up the Thukla Pass atop which sat an eerie memorial to those who have died on Everest.  Now at nearly 5000m we journeyed along a surreal highway of dust, rock and glacial waste flanked by frozen streams and the forbidding barrier of the world’s highest mountains that ripped a jagged skyline in the cobalt sea of the stratosphere.  We spent the night at Lobuche where it was so cold we were grateful for the double-glazing on the windows. 

The Lobuche Khola Valley

En route to Lobuche

A stone’s throw from the settlement was the lip of the great Khumbu glacier.  I rustled up a team of trekkers after lunch and we made the short climb to the rim where we gazed north in hushed silence to the infamous icefall that tumbles off the southern slopes of Everest.  The Icefall is by far the most dreaded and deadliest obstacle in the quest for the summit having claimed countless lives over the past 8 decades.  Its most recent paroxysm took place at the height of the 2014 climbing season when, on April 18, 16 people (most Sherpa ice specialists) were pulverised by a massive serac which detached itself from the western shoulder of the mountain and landed on the exit to the Western Cwm.  National Geographic described the tragedy as the “darkest day in the history of the world’s highest mountain” and there’s little doubt that nearly a year later its shockwaves continue to ripple through both the social and economic structures of the Solu Khumbu region. 

We were subdued and rendered almost speechless by the sheer sweep, scale and drama of the Khumbu where the inexorable action of water, rock and ice had visited such violence on the landscape it looked as though the creator, upon considering his handiwork, had seen to a few last minute adjustments with a perfunctory sweep of his hand.  I was reminded of the opening lines of a Wilfred Owen poem:

 “It seemed that out of battle I escaped

Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped

Through granites which titanic wars had groined”

Alpenglow on Nuptse

On the eighth day we began the final leg – the climb from Lobuche to Gorak Shep, last outpost before Everest.   Gorak Shep (literally “place of the Ravens”) is a God-forsaken place, situated between the western flank of the Khumbu Glacier and the brooding summits of Kalappattar and Mt Pumori.  The strangest feature of the place is a vast dust bowl the size of about 4 rugby fields that, I suspect, was a shallow lake a few hundred years ago.  Today it is a featureless chalky expanse punctuated by small clusters of yaks and two frozen ponds.  In 2009 it was the focal point of a strange sporting record - a team of English cricketers trekked to Everest and played a full one-day game there in aid of charity (though where they found the strength to do so I do not know).  Water is in short supply up here and so desert-like the conditions that the yaks trample holes through the ice to get a drink.  When I noticed a group of young Sherpas from our lodge filling their jerricans from the same source, I concluded that this was Goraks Shep’s only water source and, questioning its purity, temporarily abandoned my usual habit of drinking purified tap water in favour of buying bottled water at USD3.50 a litre.

Chris Harris with a bat that 4 Aussie cricket fans left at Base Camp to remember Phil Hughes, killed by a rogue bouncer in a match two weeks previous

After checking into our lodge and drinking a cup of tea, we completed the last few kilometres through the glacier to base camp, a round trip of three very tiring hours.

Objective Achieved!

Everest Trek - the Flight to Lukla

For the trekker flying from Kathmandu to Lukla - starting point for treks into the Everest region - the experience is not unlike a military operation.  The deciding factor in its success is the weather and when that fickle window opens, it’s a mad rush to get as many planes into the air and boots on the ground as possible.  Between the aircraft taxiing to a halt on the apron at Lukla and its takeoff no more than six minutes later, the plane disgorges 18 passengers and their gear; bundles of mail, bags of rice and other oddments – and then re-loads with an outgoing consignment of passengers and their gear.  A minute after that plane is airborne, the next one is inbound.  When the weather is good (“good” meaning at least 5000m of visibility), Lukla Airport receives and dispatches over 60 flights – most of them before lunchtime (which is roughly when conditions begin to deteriorate).  When it’s not, I’m told the resulting bottleneck can last for days.  Everyone obsesses about the weather when it comes to flights in and out of Lukla: at the start of one’s trek because one can’t wait to start the trip of a lifetime, at the end because one can’t wait to get back to civilisation. 

Lukla Apron - pic courtesy of Himalayanworkshops.com

The journey to Lukla begins at 5am amidst the darkened, moldering tenements of Kathmandu’s Thamel District.  The city sleeps late so the streets are eerie and deserted - only the occasional stray is witness to the nervous huddle of travellers waiting on the pavement for their taxi.  The experience progresses to the heavily congested domestic terminal of Tribuvhan airport and, weather permitting, concludes an hour or so later on the gloomy, windswept apron of, (according to the History Channel), “the most extreme airport in the world”.  It is a transformative experience:  the senses, still reeling from the chaos and filth of Kathmandu, are now besieged by the sheer immensity of the Himalayan massif not to mention the landing itself which, even in professional circles, is regarded as audacious.  Then of course there’s the clamour of porters jostling like an army of impatient fishermen hoping to hook a client.  There’s the crisp, thin air and the rolling green hills of the lower Khumbu valley, which, anywhere else, would easily qualify as mountains.  Here they are just hills.

Tenzing-Hillary Airport, gateway to Everest and the staging area of high adventure.  But also of great tragedy.  Built in the late 60s and only tarred in 2000, the place has seen its fair share of accidents.  Seven of the 10 recorded on Wikipedia took place between 2005 and 2009, the worst of which led to the deaths of two Yeti Airlines crewmembers and an entire party of German trekkers.  Only the pilot survived.   They are remembered on a chorten beside the path to Phakding just beyond the town gate.

So it was with relief that we exited the Tara Airlines De Havilland Twin Otter and stepped out onto the apron – relief and extreme exhilaration because the landing eclipsed even my wildest memories of roller coasters I’ve ridden.  As I paused, I noticed an outgoing group of trekkers being buffered in the propwash.  Unkempt and with the faces of one or two of them bearing a vaguely haunted look, the moment reminded me of that opening scene in Platoon in which the new recruits disembark on the runway at Saigon – all clean and innocent in their drab combat gear - only to encounter a detachment of hollow-eyed, battle-hardened grunts.  “What horrors lie in store?” they wonder.

But there was little time to think too much about it – no sooner had we stepped up onto the high street, we were ushered into a cozy lodge where a hot cup of tea awaited us.  Half an hour later, after a few final adjustments to our gear, we hit the trail – destination Phakding – a small village 2.5 hours walk hence and a descent of about 300 metres into the Dudh Khosi Valley.  We would spend our first night there.

Everest Base Camp - The Film

In November 2014, I set off on the trip of a lifetime - a trek to Everest Base Camp. Armed with my GoPro camera, I was able to put together this memoir of my journey.  I'm really pleased with the results...

Live in the moment

We men were made for adventure.  That's because, according to John Eldredge (author of the bestseller "Wild at Heart"), Adam was created in the wilderness beyond Eden - while Eve was created inside the Garden where things were beautiful and serene.  Says Eldredge:

"Every man was once a young boy.  And every little boy has dreams, big dreams:  dreams of being a hero, of beating the bad guys, of doing daring feats and rescuing the damsel in distress"

Eldredge has been pilloried from some quarters for his views on masculinity but, at least for me, the fact remains.  We men are made for adventure. 

The reminder came from an unlikely source -  Ben Stiller's 2013 re-make of "The Secret Life of Walter Mitty".  Mitty is Eldredge's "little boy", albeit in a grown man's body.  His dead end job as a "negative assets manager" (photo archivist) for Life Magazine is punctuated by fantastical flights of fancy that make him the butt end of everyone's jokes.    

Then one day he receives a mysterious gift from Life Magazine's maverick photographer Sean O'Connell - a gift that will propel him on an epic journey of his own.  His lurid fantasies will soon pale against real life backdrops of erupting volcanoes and towering mountain ranges, drama on the high seas and encounters with Afghan warlords.

I wouldn't know where to start describing all that this movie stirred up in me so I won't even try.  But one scene in particular stands out.  After a long and dangerous search, Mitty finally locates O'Connell on a remote ridge in the Himalayas.  The latter has finally tracked an elusive Snow Leopard to its lair and is about to capture the picture of a lifetime.  When the creature finally reveals itself, Mitty is astonished to see that O'Connell delays the shot long enough to allow the animal to disappears unphotographed.  "Sometimes I just like to savour the moment without the distractions of the camera and lenses" says O'Connell.

That for me is the essence of adventure.  Savouring and acting on the moments that present themselves rather than trying to stress one's way into some hyper-adrenalised sweet spot.  I witnessed this first hand on my 2012 visit to Nepal.  As we acclimatised for our ascent of the Thorung La Pass, most of us fretted and fussed over our readiness for life at altitude.  The fear wasn't that of not summiting, it was the prospect of succumbing to altitude sickness and having to retrace our footsteps to Katmandu.  We'd come to do the Annapurna Circuit and by golly we'd settle for nothing less!  Two Israeli travellers however saw things quite differently.  While our "rest" days were spent humping up and down mountains to acclimatise, their's were spent reclining in the sun, brewing coffee, twanging on a guitar and smoking the hubbly-bubbly.  When asked about their happy-go-lucky dispositions they said: "We may summit, we may not.  But who cares?  We're on holiday. Anything's better than being in Israel at the moment".  

"No valid plans for the future can be made by those who have no capacity for living in the now", said someone on Pinterest.   Go ahead and live for adventure.  But make sure you don't miss it in the moment.

An Invitation...

It started with a panel of comic book.  I was 8 years old...

At the time, we were living at my Gran's house in Salisbury and there was a modest koppie out the back.  In countless dreamy walks, this was Mt Everest.  Often after school I would pack my rucksack and head off to the summit.  The years flew by...

Fast forward to June 2012 when a friend invited me on a trip to Nepal.  We travelled in late September and trekked the Annapurna Circuit which was the experience of a lifetime, the highlight of which was crossing over the Thorung La Pass into Mustang (5400m).  You can read about this adventure in the preceding blog posts if you are interested...

It's 2014 and time to start dreaming again.  The other day I thought to myself:  "what if I organised my own trek?  Got a team of motivated individuals together for the trip of a lifetime?"

So, to get all Shawshan-esque on you -

"If you're reading this, you may be thinking of breaking out. And if you've come this far, maybe you're willing to come a little further. You've heard of the place haven't you?  Nepal Baby!  I could use a few good men to help me get my trek on wheels.  Remember. Adventure is a good thing, maybe the best of things and no good thing ever dies. I will be hoping that this invite finds you, and finds you well"

To be more straightforward - would you be interested?  I am considering 2 possible dates for a trek either to Everest Base Camp or to the Annapurna Region.

• Circa 20 September - 10 October - after the Monsoon's and just before high season
• Circa February or March 2015 - the tail end of winter

I would make all the travel arrangements for you through contacts on the ground in Katmandu and charge a modest levy for doing so.  I would undertake to get the best deals and make the money go further than if you just did it on your own.

Please drop me a note if you are interested on brian.rea@live.co.za

Yours in Adventure

Brian

Final thoughts...

After final goodbyes to our porters, we caught a minibus taxi from Nyapul to Pokhara.  To visit central Nepal and bypass this beautiful town could well be considered the height of folly.  It is, quite simply, one of the most scenic places I have visited, possibly even rivaling Switzerland’s Lake Lucerne.  So far as I can work out from my map, three rivers congregate in the western end of the Pokhara valley irrigating at least a hundred square kilometres of farmland and ultimately, disgorging into Phewa Lake around which the town is arranged.  Towering over all of this are vast hills some of which are nearly 1000 metres higher than the town itself.  Pokhara’s trademark feature, apart from the lake, is the quietly brooding and highly sacred Machapuchare, attempted once in 1957 but now forbidden to climbers. 

We stayed in Baidam district which has all the benefits of Thamel in Kathmandu though is considerably sleepier and less boisterous.  The place abounds in roadside cafes and wonderfully exotic restaurants with terrific ambiance.  The shopping is sublime too – my advice to any visitor is to shop for souvenirs here and not in the capital.  Prices are better and the selection a good deal more varied and inspiring.  My most vivid memory of Pokhara was the profusion of paragliding operators - I counted over 15 companies offering this service.  Flying usually commences at about 8 in the morning and weather permitting continues throughout the day.  The skies over Pokhara are continuously speckled with the canopies of dozens of rigs while only slightly higher up; eagles, hawks and vultures circle playfully in the thermals.

After a comfortable night, we flew back to Khatmandu where we enjoyed a happy reunion with Sandra and Colin Harris.  They were full of colourful yarns about Sandra’s experiences in a Khatmandu hospital as well as of Colin’s 3-day battle to get insurance to cough up.  All told, the expense of the evacuation and medical care came to R100 000.

From here on however, I felt my holiday beginning to unravel:  the streets of Thamel were bedlam and choked with tourists.  As I jostled my way through some last minute souvenir shopping, I detected the beginnings of a stomachache that would only get better 3 days after getting back to South Africa.  The next day, this condition greatly tarnished my guided tour of Khatmandu’s main religious shrines.  Apart from feeling unwell, my memories are mostly limited to grimy, ancient temples, nerve-wracking encounters with the city’s famous apes and the morbid spectacle of the Pashupatinath funeral pyres belching black oily smoke into the atmosphere.  Give me the mountains over the city any day.

*

Since getting back, people have been asking me what I took from the trip that I wouldn’t have acquired from a normal beach vacation or a holiday in Europe.  One person said:  “so what conclusions can you draw from all of this?” as though something objective should be distilled from the sensory and emotional overload.  Perhaps things need to be left in a state of overload?  

But for the sake on wrap-up, let me give it a bash.

At one level, I have unique memories of the fleeting acquaintances I made whilst trekking.  There was Jose the Spaniard, an eccentric loner who walked mostly in a garish pair of red Crocs and who carried a bright red umbrella to protect him from the sun.  There was Andre the Brazilian and ill-fated Yak photographer who travelled to Nepal on his own because he’d fallen out of favour with his girlfriends.  “They broke up with me because they think I love my mountain bike more than them” (er…Andre, if you are reading this, perhaps the bike isn’t the problem).  There was Sander and his talkative guide Tilak who enlightened us to no-end on the culture, history and geography of the Annapurna region.  There was Fred and Rita, an elderly couple from Idaho who were fit as fiddles and doing the Circuit without porters.  

There is something unique about journeying with perfect strangers.  No one really worries about who does what for a living although such things are occasionally discussed.  The main thing is that you are accepted for who you are – a fellow sojourner who has the same apprehensions, endures the same hardships and who has come to enjoy the same mountains as the next guy.

From this diverse group, I also got a glimpse into the true meaning of unplugging.  It’s one thing to go away on holiday and call it relaxation.  In reality however, very few people have perfected the art of recreation.  Mea Culpa.  I spent most of my time worrying about where the next litre of water was coming from or how I would cope with the effects of altitude.  Yes, I did manage to relax enough to read Doug Rogers’ excellent book “The Last Resort” but that didn’t really count.  Well, certainly not alongside an Israeli family we came to know.  The Cohens had gotten unplugging down to a fine art.  One member of the party had brought along his guitar while another carried the hookah.  On rest days or in the early evenings, the family would sit around singing their favourite songs, smoking cherry scented tobacco and generally not taking things too seriously.  “Aren’t you worried about the Thorung La?”, I asked as I returned to the Lodge exhausted from an acclimatization climb.  “We’ll worry about that when we get to it,” said the father, man named Eyal – “with things the way they are in Israel, we relish every day we can”.

Also, for the first time in my life, I got a real taste of the meaning of teamwork.  Our little group of five, consisting almost entirely of perfect strangers, gelled quickly as a team that got on well and which cared about one another.  The catalyst was the shared commitment to not retracing our steps back to where we started the trail at Syange. 

Finally, I gave a lot of thought to my work as a marketing consultant.  The week before leaving, I’d been involved in an abortive workshop where the findings of a project I’d been working on for two months were summarily rejected.  For at least the first 4 days of the trip, I found myself railing at the protagonists concerned, agonizing over how they could have been so resistant and short sighted.  At one stage I angrily decided that I hated my work as well as the bureaucratic, unimaginative assholes I have to deal with.  Naturally, I quickly reminded myself that without work such a trip would have been utterly impossible.  I Thank God for all the work gigs, even the "bad" ones.

But as the trip progressed these frustrations receded.   In their place came the simple rhythm of rising before dawn, of walking, eating and going to bed early in rustic settings.  It was a world of spectacular night skies, rushing rivers, towering mountains, humble people earning an honest living – a world free of the intrusions of phone calls, Facebook, Twitter and crappy, monotonous advertising.  It was a world where even a little is enough.   

Could I have lived like this indefinitely? – of course not.  But it was sweet relief while it lasted. And in this state, the mind-bending grandeur of the Himalaya really took root in the soil of my mind.  It was the culmination of many childhood desires I didn’t even really know existed.  There were days it was so intoxicating I could hardly hold a thought in my head and so simply wept with joy at the privilege of being there.  To mangle the final lines of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s masterpiece, the Great Gatsby, I had come face to face with something commensurate to my capacity for wonder.

Journey's End

In my hometown of Ballito there is a pedestrian staircase that climbs from the village bowl (the town’s lowest point) to Townsend Park, a suburb nearly 150 metres higher up.  It intersects 2 streets and consists of 3 separate flights numbering nearly 350 stairs.  The stairway was a prominent feature of my pre-trek training program and I christened them the “Potemkin Steps” after the famous staircase in Odessa, (though they bear no resemblance).  In the weeks before my departure, I built up to doing about 7 sets three times a week.

But my Potemkin Steps were no contest for the staircase we were about to encounter.  “I think the Circuit has reserved its best sting till last” I said as we studied the map over breakfast in Ghorepani.  On the map, somewhere between Banthanti and Tikhedhunga, were the words “3800 stone steps”.  The descent to our next hotel would be 1500 metres, much of which would take place on those steps.

One cannot help but marvel at the generations of blood, sweat, tears and ingenuity that have gone into constructing and maintaining the staircase to Tikhedhunga.  The undertaking to quarry, size and place stones – to survey routes through the treacherous topography – to maintain this seemingly endless walkway in the face of uncompromising Monsoon rain – must surely rank as one of Nepal’s wonders, understated though it is.

Perhaps even more amazing were the porters ferrying head loads of merchandise from Nyapul to Ghorepani.  During his 5-month journey through the Himalaya as part of a BBC documentary, Michael Palin was similarly impressed, referring to such loads as “Sisyphean” meaning “endless and unavailing”.  I cannot think of a better word myself.  I once saw a porter trying to resume his journey after a break, his basket filled to the brim with apples, pomegranates as well as a set of cooking pans.  As he got to his feet, the basket listed to one side taking the poor man with it.  As he fell awkwardly, we jumped quickly to his aid.  Getting him to his feet, correctly balanced and on his way called for the strength of two men.  My heart went out to these wraith-like fellows, very few of who have the appropriate footwear for the terrain, (most wearing sandals or flip-flops).  And while the government has passed regulations on how much tourist porters may carry (no more than 30 kg), the carriers of general merchandise seem exempt from the restrictions.  They are relatively cheerful nonetheless, congregating for breaks in places where the hillsides offer a ledge on which to rest their loads.  These places are immediately recognized by the litter of chewing tobacco and snuff packets, the contents of which are no doubt consumed to deaden the aches, pains and drudgery which come with the occupation.  I was particularly taken with the chicken porters, hardy souls lugging cages containing 30 or more live birds and who complete the seemingly endless climb from Birethanti to Ghorepani in a single day.

Our own porters continued to amaze me.  Though their burdens had lightened considerably since Colin and Sandra’s departure, each was carrying a load in excess of 20 Kg.  By the time we stopped for lunch in Banthanti, they had already secured rooms for us in Tikhedhunga.  When I finally crossed the bridge of the Bhurungdi River and entered the town’s high street, my legs had a mind of their own and my knees were like jelly.  I found the three porters comfortably reclining in the afternoon sun on the pavement outside the lodge, cracking jokes and smiling contentedly.  When I asked them how they’d done, Ram and Rissam laughed as though I’d broached some sort of inside joke.  Physically the two had coped just fine.  The challenge, instead, had been a mental one.  For some days, Ram and Rissam’s desperate lot was simply to stay three steps ahead of Kisna who had not showered for nearly 15 days.  “He doesn’t like water,” concluded Rissam with a giggle.  It was pretty amusing and at last I had an explanation for the curious fug that had recently attached itself to my bag.

From Left: Kisna, Ram, Raj and Rissam

*

The walk to Birethanti, our final night’s stopover, was a joy.  Mostly on the flat, it followed a beautiful river that meandered through quaint villages and verdant farmland.  The water, just warm enough for swimming, was sweet relief from the humidity. I got in twice - once en route and once in a small gorge above the village.  But besides this bucolic serenity, I felt sad.  The town of Syange where we had embarked on this incredible adventure felt light years behind us.  The trepidation I had felt in those dark pre-dawn hours before our first day’s trekking now felt misplaced.  None of my fears had materialized – yet the Circuit had given unstintingly of itself.

Crystal clear mountain streams - ruined by carelessly discarded Sunsilk sachets (see foreground)

Before supper I examined my boots.  They’d done a yeoman service but I noticed that the sole of one had come loose.  Using two tubes of super glue, I carried out a quick repair job even though I didn’t envisage wearing them again.  My bag had only just made it too.  When Prem gave it to me 15 days before it was black.  Now, caked with chalky dust and sediment, it had turned a dull grey.  Though still in good working order, it was badly scuffed and the logos had all but worn off.  Prem’s guarantee of a new one had not been misplaced.

Walking Machines

That night, a retinue of Spanish trekkers and their Nepali support team held a boisterous fiesta in the dining room to celebrate the end of their trek and the successful ascent of Thorung Peak.  Not only had they negotiated the pass, they had climbed fixed ropes to the summit (6200 metres).  I was impressed:  the team’s average age was significantly higher than our own and one woman over the age of 60 had made it to the top.  There was much to celebrate and the tables were pushed to one side to make space for dancing.  I sat up late reading, amused by the increasingly drunken cries of “Ole” and laughter as each culture taught the other its native dance.

Suddenly there was an earsplitting clap of thunder.  Strobes of lightning rent the night sky asunder giving fleeting glimpses of Fishtail Peak, the last real mountain we would see.  I nudged the curtains aside and for a while admired the spectacle.  But the storm ended as quickly as it had begun, the hissing of the rain quickly supplanted by the din of two mighty rivers roaring into the confluence just below the village.

Though the Circuit was over, I could not have asked for a better finale.

Sad Goodbyes