Ocean of Milk 6

                 “Annapurna, to which we had gone emptyhanded, was a treasure on
                   which we should live the rest of our days. With this realization we turn
                   the page: a new life begins. There are other Annapurnas in the lives of
                   men.”
                                                                             Maurice Herzog, Annapurna


On the morning of the seventeeth day, across a large suspension bridge over the Ghar Khola, we climbed back up a kilometer and a half, along the Sadhu’s stairways. Our shadows were taller than our souls.
Arumgumam guided us to the skyline, five hundred meters to the top of a rocky spur, and a single sentinel house. For a rupee, Robyn and I bought what looked like an immense lemon. That's what it was. Even more dangerous further above, we had to cross a huge landslide of slick mica, threatening to carry us down into space with each unsure footfall. Gradually, we ascended into rhododendron forest over Ghorapani Pass, and magnificent views of Dhaulagiri, Tukche, Nilgiri, Annapurna I, Annapurna South, Hiunchuli and Glacier Dome.
Ghorapani meant ‘horse water’ like Tatopani meant ‘hot water.’  Stocky Tibetan men shouted to striking caravans of plumed horses. Silver bells warned of their approach, scattering us to find a safe place to wait out the herd’s momentum. Sharp hooves ground the trail to dust. And then it went up, and up, and up. Into and through old forest, with Spanish moss feasting like bats on dying trees, past scores of obnoxious Americans. The Stetson that one wore was louder than he was. We later found out he was the US ambassador. Arumgumam was faster than their daypack rummaging produced cameras, and they didn’t want photos of us.
“Galah.” We said in greeting.
“Galah.” They replied, behind us.
As we entered Ghorapani, Arumgumam took us to a lodge overlooking the town. Here we met Terry and Bruce, Canadian harmonica impresarios, who entertained us through our onion soup and rostis. We fell asleep to their wailing reed rhythms, cool fading into the cool late night. Around 3:30 am, nature drew me out under a star-studded sky Ocean of Milk, blue-black down to her foundations. Orion shone.
We picked strawberries along the trail next morning, before beginning a knee-crunching descent through the old forest. The drop took us along rhododendron-lined sparkling clear streams to Nayathanti and Bahunthanti. Below Ulleri, the path became even more punishing, until I could feel my heelbones rattling inside my skull.
Across two suspension bridges we rolled up into Tikhedunga, to find our sadhu having lunch with the American ambassador. I thought this a rather unusual détente, until I realized that Arumgumam was pretending not to speak English, a disposition that was driving the Stetson to even louder and more frustrated attempts at diplomacy. As he joined our departure, Arumgumam fired a big blue flame from his Bic into a Marlboro, and excused himself in perfect Etonian English.
“Galah.” He said, as he left.
“Galah.” Responded the dumbfounded ambassador.
After crossing and recrossing the Bhurungdi Khola to avoid the steep cliffs, we followed the bamboo forests and waterfalls of the north bank, down into Birenthanti. Arumgumam led us down a winding street of large flagstones and sidewalk cafés, to the four rupee Sunrise Lodge. A cold wash waited down at the river.
We said goodbye to Arumgumum next morning. He turned and smiled his last Jesus head bobble. A final blue flame fired out of his lighter, and he disappeared in a puff of smoke. Galah.
Robyn and I crossed the Modai Khola on a suspension bridge, to begin an abrupt switchback ascent up a dusty trail to Chandrakot. Perched on a ridge, the trail suddenly became miraculous. The long chain of the Annupurnas were impressive enough, especially Annapurna South.
But the prize went to the profile of the ‘fish tail’ mountain of Machapuchare, off-limits to climbers because of its sacred relationship to Shiva, poking its proud Matterhorn nose into the clear blue. Robyn and I followed a ridge to Lumle, up a set of wide stone stairs to crest at Khare, where we picked up a skipping eight-year old Nepali girl, who led us over the ridge into the Yamdi Khola, and our descent into Naundanda. We checked into Sherchan Lodge, and hung out with the chickens on the flagstone terrace.
“You’re going the wrong way.” Rang out above us. It was Dan.
The afternoon’s composure was shattered by the three Company men, who had gotten lost and were on the way back to Kagbeni. That shot the program. Robyn called them in.
The rest of the day faded away on the terrace of the Sherchan. The owner emerged to join us. He was a young man, with a moustache and a yellow pin striped polo jacket. From his coat pocket he removed a packet of cigarette rolling papers, I thought to roll a cigarette.
He started to lick and paste several together, until he had made a piñata rocketship, complete with fins and flanges. He had filled it with what he called a tola, which I knew as a traditional Vedic unit of mass, about 3/8 of a troy ounce. Akbar the Great had minted tola-weight coins, and the British had carried on the standard, with their gold bullion. The gold rocket he launched took us over Machapuchare and the vertebrae of mountain pinnacles. There were other Annapurnas in the lives of men, but these were the ones in mine. From here I could see the arc of the world, and our lives. Annapurna means ‘Goddess of the Harvests,’ and the dreams I had later were a singular vintage. I knew the Himalayas because I was the Himalayas. The dogs barked all night, in fluent Sanskrit.
The last day of the trek took us first deceptively skyward, and then straight down a broad trail to the foot of the Yamdi Khola valley, and across the river toward Phewa lake. We were supposed to reappear onto the raised mud dike walls of a rice paddy field chessboard. If there had ever been a track, it had left years before.
I went ahead of Robyn, and soon found myself out of earshot, and consumed by undergrowth, gigantic spiderwebs, and growing arachnophobia. My knees jarred and crumbled across expansive sheets of boulders through a tributary. When I finally emerged into the sun and paddies, a naked young boy escorted me to a spot on the river, just in time to see Robyn and Dan and Bert enter the scene.
We swam the river, giggling, and sun bathed on the far bank, relieved to be out of the old forest and near the end. A young ferryman took us on a hot hour-long paddle to Pokhara for seven rupees. As our socks dried on the gunnels, the Annapurnas closed in to complete our circle. We ran up onto the lake’s far beach, like claiming a new land. A westerner on a bicycle was peddling circles on the foreshore.
I recognized the man who had singlehandedly made the world of exotic places available to aspirant travelers, and then singlehandedly destroyed them, by making them available.
“Tony Wheeler.” I called out. He stopped.
“You wrote in West Asia on the Cheap that Canadians don’t need visas to enter Syria.” I said.
“And?” He asked.
“We do.” I said.
“I’ll fix it.” He said.
“It’s too late.” I said. “I’ve already met my Destiny.” He shrugged, and started peddling in circles again.
Dan and Bert and Robyn and I hiked the last few meters to the courtyard of the Snowland, to find John and Julie sitting with the Israelis. She had made it back down the other side, without any further misfortune. We all adjourned to the Hungry Eye café, and ordered one of everything off the menu. Dan ate five pieces of pie, without exhaling.
The tall Israeli was bursting.
“What.” I asked.
“We beat you.” He boasted, chest out. The other Israelis smiled their Israeli smiles.
“Yes, you did.” I said. “Did you see the Yeti?”
“Yeti?” he asked. “You saw a Yeti?”