'Round Rum Doodle

*early November; "The Ascent of Rum Doodle" is a satire of turn of the century great-man mountaineering expeditions

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As we gained elevation, the nights grew colder and vast snowy peaks thrust into the sky all around.  The nicer tea houses lit fires in the dining room stoves; one owner invited us into the kitchen, which for me was like getting to peek behind the curtain.  There was a propane burner but most cooking was done on a wood fire stove, including roasted popcorn seeds and dried soy beans for a crunchy snack.

Some of my pleasantest meals were those shared with the Kiwis and French people I kept running into, hiking the same itinerary.  In their 60s and 70s, these hardy trekkers outpaced and out-drank me, and warmly invited me to share in their biting political analysis (Kiwis) and discussions of regional cuisine (French).

It took me several days to realize all the tea houses in all the villages had the same menu.  It was a funny mix of approximated European dishes -- pizza made with ketchup, ginger, and squash; spaghetti with ginger and onions; Swiss potato rosti -- and variations on fried rice as well as the Nepali staple, dal bhat.  Dal bhat is rice, lentils, sautéed greens, a few pickles, and potato curry, and you can eat as much as you want.  My guide Nirkumar (and most Nepali people) ate this twice a day, and of course no two cooks make the dishes exactly the same.  My prejudice against rice led me to eat giant platefuls of sautéed potatoes and veggies, satisfying to my midwestern soul.  Nirkumar carried apples and pomegranates and presented one to me every evening for dessert.  

One of my favorite conversations with Nirkumar was when a TV was on one afternoon.  He laughed really hard and said something to the effect of, "Oh, WWF, you know that's fake wrestling, right?  It's very popular, and lots of my friends think it's real, but that's ridiculous!"  Not long after, we got to talking about the coexistence of Buddhist beliefs and shamanism.  He told me people consult shamans about important decisions, sickness, and the future -- but if one doesn't get results, they try another local shaman.  And while Nirkumar always consults them according to custom, he "only believes in them 25%."

We passed through dense little villages, spates of masterful masonry and hand-split slate roofs, orderly piles of hand-scythed grain, tarps of drying chilis, and children requesting chocolates and saying hello.  The sunny days passed pleasantly and Manaslu grew more prominent.  We hiked to the mountain's basecamp to acclimatize, and didn't quite know what to expect as no one had been up for several days.  The way was steep and absolutely stunning: we ascended a rocky path beside a glacier, above its green lagoon, passing its crevassed terminus, eventually along precipitous snowy switchbacks up to a few collapsed tents awaiting their owners' return.

It was stunning, and intimidating.  We went up about 5,000 feet, and I was good and tuckered even after stopping to refuel with some momos (dumplings) at a mountain camp run by two chatty Tibetan ladies listening to rap.  This hike was to prepare me for the pass, two days later...

I remained intimidated.  But actually, the pass wasn't bad.  We started at 4am to avoid wind and have plenty of daylight for the descent, so I got to enjoy glimpses up at the stars and the beautifully imperceptible light that precedes dawn.  We just steadily walked up, over the rocks and snow, until a tangle of colorful prayer flags marked the pass.  I drank some ice-splintered water, took an awkward photo, and we made our way down-down-down, back to the land of plants and bare hands.

Two more days down the river valley and another long bus ride brought us back to Kathmandu.  One of the French women joined me, and we explored the city and its medieval neighbor Bhaktapur.  We happened to be in town for the celebration of the fall harvest, and enjoyed a festival atmosphere with families praying at temples, singing and drumming, and creating artistic works of thanksgiving from grains and beans.  The garlanded shrines flickered in candlelight and bells clanged, echoing in the night.

Nirkumar leads the way down

A big spread of Newari food

Buddhist prayer tablets

Tea house kitchen 

Near Manaslu basecamp

A depiction of the shrine in front of it

Village and yaks below

Bleeeaauuugghhh!!!

Kathmandu to Manaslu

Late October: To the extent it's possible in a dense city teeming with tourists and motorbikes, street merchants and tuktuks, pollution of every sort and temple monkeys, I relaxed for a few days in Kathmandu.  But it's prime trekking season, so I soon made arrangements to hike the Manaslu Circuit (next to Anapurna), a two-week trip.  A rather disorganized booking agent matched me with a guide, and I opted to carry my own pack -- I'd be sleeping and eating in tea houses (hostels, essentially), so it was easy to pack light.

Getting to the trailhead was a journey in itself.  Around sunrise my guide and I alighted on a somewhat ratty bus.  Now, some of you know my dad and brother are amateur racecar drivers, and have been known to deploy their superior reflexes, cornering, and passing-within-inches on regular roads.  So I'm a calm passenger and used to, shall we say, aggressive maneuvers.  This bus driver surpassed anything I have experienced, on the roughest cliffside roads I've experienced.  We overtook *everyone,* honking on blind curves, bouncing over massive potholes and rocks, splashing through shallow rivers, while blasting Nepali dance music.  And yes, there was a lady with chickens on the bus.  There was also the most cocksure and stylish conductor, a guy about 25 who hopped off and on to round up passengers, and whistled and slapped the side of the bus to help signal when we'd squeeze by a truck on a village street.  He seemed to relish his role like a mahout with a well-trained work elephant.

And so, the morning after our ten-hour bus ride, we started walking up the Buri Gandaki River valley.  It took us a while to get acquainted as his English is a bit rusty and my Nepalese is nonexistent, but I quickly realized Nirkumar is awesome.  He's polite and kind, often joked with passing locals, and -- rare amongst men -- didn't hesitate to ask for directions.  Significant sections of the trail had collapsed in massive landslides; all that rain I had in Bhutan also fell in Nepal, with destructive and deadly results.  Now, just a few weeks later, the local people had forged temporary walkways and begun the backbreaking work of fitting stones to reinforce ledges and eventually widen paths for two-way mule transit.

Mules!  While trekkers use porters to carry excess stuff, a few mountaineers ferry supplies to scale the peak of Manaslu, and the villagers rely on mules for tanks of natural gas, food, and construction materials.  The mule handlers' sharp whistles warn of their approach before the animals' clanging bells, and fresh poop is an indication we're on the right path when the trail is obscured.

It was so different not traveling in a big group, with sun all day every day, crisscrossing the river on massive suspension bridges, among lots of local people walking between villages.  It was also different carrying 25 lbs. instead of 10 lbs., and spending the evening indoors.  But I continued the ritual of afternoon chocolate and reading.

Mule traffic jam

Harvest time

Buckwheat(?)

I always got a double to myself

Kiwi friends

Well, hello there...

A rare peaceful moment in Kathmandu 

Bye-bye Bhutan

There's something important I need to share as I finally wrap up writing about Bhutan.  I took Diamox to alleviate altitude sickness symptoms, and it worked quite well.  The main side effect is it makes you pee a lot.  But for me, the main side effect was farting.  ALL. THE. TIME.  Occasionally with enough vehemence it woke me up.  No one else reported this phenomenon but the internet assures me I'm not alone.  Though it was tough leaving the warm cocoon of my sleeping bag, I did see some beautiful stars and magical moonlit frosted landscapes when I peed at night.

It was a trek of extreme contrasts: from sweating under the midday sun to huddling for warmth in the wet night; from mustering all my strength and will to climb as my legs ached for mercy to easily trotting down scree slopes and bouldery riversides; from feeling we'd hit our stride to realizing we quickly approached the end.  Reaching the last snowy pass was a happy feeling for me, of accomplishment and physical vitality, but I also don't like when things end.

We abruptly returned to civilization, walking down a road(!) to a final tent lunch, so very posh with warm washcloths, glassware, linens, and celebratory beers.  That evening our smelly, dingy crew piled into a fancy hotel and emerged showered and almost unrecognizable in new/clean clothes.  We had a day of sightseeing in the capitol city, a mass of buildings and people and cars and culture.  And then suddenly we all dissolved back into our individual lives.

Mostly -- a few of us flew together to Kathmandu, and connecting the experiences in Bhutan with Nepal made for a pleasant transition.  

Last pass!

Bhutan's most sacred lake

Our last camp site, penned in for the evening

Elegant lunch

Glacier!

Our awesome work dude crew

Yaks looking majestic 

The Daily Program

Oct. 4-9

I sometimes slept with earplugs or headphones, depending on the proximity of my tent to someone snoring, village dogs/bark-machines, or soothing river rapids.  On naked-ear mornings, I'd usually wake up to "the boys" (our cooks and horsemen) singing as they heated water and harnessed the mules.  At 6am hot tea and coffee were brought to our tents, followed soon after by warm washing water, which the tidier amongst us likely used to cleanse their faces, but I merely rinsed my hands in after tying my muddy/mule-poopy shoelaces.  I'd get dressed, pack my things, and be prompt for 7am breakfast.

Generous portions of toast, porridge, scrambled eggs, occasionally pasta, and once, to mild shock, chickpeas were pressed on us, accompanied by jam, honey, peanut butter, milk, juice, muesli, and endless tea and coffee.  One of the Czech women always hoped for "eggy bread," a version of French toast that we all loved and smothered in honey and jam.  Stuffed and toothbrushed and rain-jacketed, we'd start hiking by 8am.

Lunch often struck me as colonial-genteel: after hiking four or five hours, we would come to a large blue tent sheltering fourteen camp chairs in a semicircle.  One of the cooks would hand out juice boxes, dishes, and mugs, and pour hot water.  As we rested our feet they would unpack warm rice and entrees from a large insulated container.  Typically there was a steamed or sautéed veggie or two, sometimes finely diced meat, or paneer cheese.  Dessert was almost always fruit, until they spoiled us the last week with chocolates -- most memorably little KitKats on a lakeside in howling sleet.

After either a steep climb or more leisurely stroll, we'd straggle into camp about 3 or 4pm.  I'd instantly remove my soggy shoes and socks and change into my "evening wear" -- an assortment of pajamas, dry sweaters, and a giant loaner down coat.  We'd all gather for tea and cookies or, thrillingly for me, popcorn.  I would try to participate in gracious small talk while barely masking my exhaustion, and attempt subtlety about eating as many cookies as possible.

I'd while away the time until dinner writing some notes on the day, reading, listening to old podcasts, and attempting to spread out my wet things in my wet tent.  7pm was one of the best moments of the day -- SOUP!  Huddled in our many layers by dim lantern light, we'd all buzz about what kind of soup it would be, and await the wonderful warmth it imbued.  Hats came off and smiles lit every face as we spooned life-affirming broth, clutching the warm bowls in our mitts.  The rest of dinner was a carb fest, sometimes pasta AND potatoes AND rice, often lentil daal, and some mixed veg.  We learned that the food wasn't particularly representative of Bhutanese cuisine, with the exception of chilis and cheese and momos (dumplings).  The food was always tasty and varied, but not much lives up to the full-body experience of soup -- although gingery fried potatoes were also beloved.

blue gentians 

Cute school kids

toothpaste-colored lakes

Scouting for Lord of the Rings

One of our guides, Rinchin, looking badass

the ministration of soup

Tea & Entropy

Oct. 4

It seems to be an abnormally rainy fall.  Monsoon season officially ended but we continue to slog through foggy, muddy, pissy conditions.  A cold has been making the rounds and I've just succeeded in kicking it, with the help of various pills and collapsing in my tent as soon as possible each day.  Putting on damp wool clothes in the mornings is only marginally less pleasant than peeling off my mud-and-donkey-poop-saturated socks in the afternoons.

But then a glorious thing happened: the sun came out and revealed a glacier spilling from high peaks, and the next morning the colossal rock face was dusted with fresh snow.  Instead of the usual huddling in my tent with weak instant coffee, lazily packing up to face a dreary morning, I hustled outside to watch the sun creep along into the valley and intensify the electric blue glacial river.

On this stint of the trail we've hired some yaks to carry our stuff along with the mules.  The yaks will come in handy if we encounter heavy snow; and, they look cool. They wear bells and some have decorative sort of feathery cloth on their heads and tails.

We faced a culinary gauntlet on our rest day in Laya.  First, butter tea, which is popular here as well as Nepal.  It's salty, redolent of yak, and topped with rice krispies. We also tried a type of yak cheese that is boiled and dried until rock hard, then strung in chunks like a necklace for convenient transport.  It was akin to gnawing the rind of Parmesan. Finally, I was defeated by the uniquely bizarre cordycep, a highly sought-after natural medicine particular to this area: it's a three-inch long mushroom that grows from the head of a caterpillar.  The fungus and host are consumed as a unit, chewed whole or steeped in tea or alcohol, and considered a general promoter of health and virility.  Despite such virtues, I opted instead for "American Style Cream and Onion" potato chips, sold in a tent beside the archery field where the home team pulled ahead of the neighboring village.

A nice big descent

Blue river, blue sky

Increasingly rancid clothes

Pretty sweet camp spot

Tramping In Style

Sept. 26

I'm writing this ten days into the trip (and finally posting weeks later), cozy in my tent after a rather wet day of hiking.  Tomorrow we'll reach a sizable enough village to charge our phones and buy snacks if we so desire, but it will still be a couple weeks until internet (and that's just fine).

So, Bhutan!  I sat next to a friendly monk on the plane who shared some insights and opinions on the modernization and environmental stewardship of the kingdom.  Upon arrival, a group of us coalesced while we waited for our visa letter to be assessed and PCR tests administered.  My tour company is Australian, so the heavy Aussie and Kiwi representation makes sense; there are also two Czech women, a Scottish couple, and me.  My assumptions about age and gender were incorrect -- we only have four men, and four people over 50.  Everyone is pretty fit but not abnormally so, and I'm surprised to find myself one of the faster hikers.

I know I just came from a living situation where thirteen people shared meals and constantly socialized, but holy shit, these people love to hang out and talk. Everyone is pleasant and interesting, and I enjoy learning about their lives and travels, but I broke down a couple days ago and paid extra for a tent to myself to relish some introvert time.

The scenery so far is stunning and also not what I expected -- we've been above 10,000 feet nearly the whole time but there is lush mossy forest in the lower valleys and bushy tundra-like hillsides at the passes.  We've gazed upon expansive river valleys with raging rapids for endless miles.  Scads of alpine flowers nod in the breeze, yaks graze in their high summer pastures, brightly spotted butterflies flit across the path, and it doesn't feel we're so very high up.  We've camped by glaciers and quietly stalked past a herd of blue sheep. Today we flushed a flock of blood pheasants before crossing an ice-cold river where the bridge was out.

We're the first group of foreigners to travel the Snowman Trek since 2019.  Everyone we see smiles and says hello; many people speak English well and welcome us.  We visited a remote school with adorable kids who sang us a song about eating too many chili peppers.  We even camped next to a prison work crew fixing up an earthquake-damaged old fortress.  It was a national holiday and they celebrated the day off with an archery contest and music.  We also stopped in to see a yak herder's tent camp.  A fragrant juniper fire kept them toasty warm and yak cheese boiled in a giant pot.

The awesome landscape is complemented by our sumptuous camp life.  Never before have I arrived to a tent set up with my mattress inflated, my heavy bag having been transported by mule, hot water brought to me for tea and washing my face, and off to the side a little tent set up with a raised toilet seat over a deep hole and copious toilet paper.  Our meals are served in a large tent with a long table set with tablecloth, metal utensils, and plastic dishes -- and our cooks come around to serve us and offer seconds.  The only remaining shred of dirtbag about me now is my unwashed hair.

It's tradition to drink alcohol while shooting...

Lucie high above our orange tents

Thank you, donkeys!

Yak herder tent

Surprise, the bridge washed out!

Long Wave Goodbye

I'm in Bangkok for less than 36 hours but I have prioritized to successfully: 1) visit a temple, 2) eat spicy noodles, and 3) get a massage.  That would be a fabulous day anytime, but after two days of airport floors and airplane seats it's a fucking dream.

It's actually happening, I'm going to Bhutan and hiking in the Himalayas!  A month of remote mountains, tent life, no internet...sounds sort of like Alaska, but with fewer moldy vegetables.  The mountains will be taller than I'm used to, the air thinner, and the company more Commonwealthy -- I just got a list of my trip-mates, and ten out of fifteen are from New Zealand and Australia.  

Tomorrow is the last leg of flying and official start of the tour.  But my brain is very much still in Alaska.  We ended the season with a big party: pizza, old prom dresses, ping pong, dancing, an ambitious number of kegs.  And then the aurora danced over the glassy lake, weaving through the stars.  I enjoyed runny yolks on sourdough with tons of goat cheese and cooked for staff and helped close up the lodge.  I took the skiff across the lake and waved and waved as we do, drove to Anchorage with sundry carefully packed bags, and navigated "big city" traffic to do my last chores (actually totally fine, there's like 300,000 people).  And I caught my breath, or held my breath, or whatever metaphor makes sense for a few days of blissful oblivion before journeying west-west-west to the next venture.

Thank you for taking this picture and for playing Beyoncé, Kevin.

Bye for now, lake!

My last big paddle of the summer, in Irish Channel.