NEPAL 10: The Langtang Trail

"A woodland in full color is awesome as a forest fire, in magnitude at least, but a single tree is like a dancing tongue of flame to warm the heart." - Hall Borland

The night had been restless.  Reality danced amongst the light and shadows of imagination; they wrestled and reality lost.   Our minds were weak and chose to mingle amidst the powers of good and evil.  At moments peace came and the day before could be written off as a bad dream, and then just as quickly, thunder crashed and the rain pelted our faces - we stood alone sinking deep into the mud.  We awoke with a start, and reality, amused with its evening of fun, found its way back into our remembrance.  We groaned and rolled over.  The morning had come all too soon.  Justin pulled back the flowered curtain and muttered, “Still raining.”  Our clothes remained soaked from last night’s trek through the rain, mud, and god knows what else, and our bodies ached with water-logged bones.  Our rain gear stuck to us like a doctor’s glove being pulled over a wet hand, as we forced them over our wet clothes.  We repacked our bags, ate a quick breakfast, and headed out into the rain.     

The rain turned into a light drizzle as we were motioned by a nearby guard to show our permits before crossing the bridge.  We dug through our bag, tried to muster up a smile for the guard, and crossed our fingers.  He waved us through.  The long suspension bridge swayed gently over the rushing river below; we crossed confidently and without much thought to the danger.  At the end of the bridge a man greeted us with a copious smile, a firm hand shake, and very basic English.  The sincere greeting seemed to lift our spirits and our heavy feet.  “I feel like every step I take is one step further away from the flute.  My heart just isn’t in it.” I exposed my obvious lack of enthusiasm for this trek.  Justin, usually a man of a verbose vocabulary, only nodded, but then chose to add, “I feel the same way.”  We climbed the steep hill up to the tiny village where our spirits were again lifted by the sound of children, no more than 7 years old, singing.  “Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Saturday, Sunday . . .”  I stopped short in my tracks.  “Do you hear that? They are singing Monday, Tuesday . . .”  Justin stopped, a large smile sweeping across his face and little by little it started to brush away the heart-sickening memory of our lost flute.  “They forgot Friday!” I said in amusement.  I enjoyed listening to the days of the week roll off their tongues with thick Nepali accents, in the sing-song voice that only a child could produce. 

Before long we stumbled upon a path laid before us with large flat stones.  The trail ran alongside the river with oversized trees sweeping up to create a giant canopy.  The sun was beginning to part the clouds and the rain was now only a distant memory.  “No leeches so far!” Justin was happy to announce.  Along the edge of the trail was a hippies’ paradise; surrounded by cannabis plants of all sizes on all sides.  Some of the plants were taller than Justin could reach on his tippy toes with his arm outstretched above him.  “Am I in heaven?” he asked me.  “In the middle of a beautiful jungle, with a beautiful girl crazy enough to follow, and surrounded by cannabis!”  Bemused by his excitement, I could only laugh and shake my head in response.  

Before long our stomachs were informing us that it was past our lunch time and that we should rest soon.  Moments later we found ourselves standing in awe at an enormous and very powerful waterfall crashing down and around giant protruding boulders.  From where we were standing they looked to us as though they were suspended in thin air – it was breathtaking.  A tiny lodge lay resting at its feet, and an aged woman beckoned us to stop and rest.  She wore a plain, modest dress of many layers and muted colors. Her dark unkempt hair was hidden beneath a band of cloth that tied it loosely back on her head.  Our surreal surroundings merged, and somehow, she blended in not seeming a bit out of place with her apron tied around her waist, and her weathered hands plucking up the stools from outside and placing them inside by the fire.  She gently motioned us inside; we hesitated because of our muddy boots, but she insisted and ushered us in.  The diminutive room was dark save the fire leaping out of the small clay oven.  The two miniature stools were placed in front of it, and she signaled for us to warm ourselves.  A tiny kitten, sunken in at the hips and wide-eyed, sat blinking up at us.  An even older woman came toddling in, hunched over with firewood wedged under her arms.  She sat cross-legged on the floor next to us, stretched her withered hands towards the fire, and smiled with joy. 

The mud oven was ingenious with one burner - a hole where the fire rose out on top - and a large mouth in front in which to feed the wood.  She conjured up two cups of tea and two bowls of noodle soup just as our fatigue was starting to display itself.  The kitten let out mellifluous meows and we ‘accidently’ dropped a noodle or two from our bowls.  The fire warmed our flesh and seeped into our bones.  The smiles and hospitality of our hosts became the broth in our soup, running through our bodies and rekindling our passion.  The sting of days gone by was slowly being healed by the salve of today’s bounty.  The brief and seemingly insignificant pit-stop in Domaine became the revitalization that our souls needed.  The dread of the morning created a late start for us and the impending night was already a concern.  We gave our heartfelt thanks to our gracious hosts, and hastened our steps toward Bamboo only two hours away.  

Across the river hung large, flat bib-shaped honeycombs.  The creamy white lip across the top of the honeycomb kissed the rocks and hung on tightly; fading from white to orange to burnt umber.  Countless waterfalls cascaded down the sheer rock.  The enormous boulders were monoliths emerging from the river akin to vast, foreboding skyscrapers.  Mudslides demolished the path and our footing became uneven and uncertain.  Ancient trees grew up and over the trail, ferns hung down from their branches as though feathers from an eagle’s outstretched wings, they swayed gently in the breeze.  The beautiful scenery caused us to pause and admire the splendor of nature.  There wasn’t any trash littering the trails, and the air smelled sweet and clean.  A large waterfall surged over the trail blocking our way, some locals waved at us to take a different route, but we chose to press on through the torrential downpour of water.  The rocks, having been beaten into submission by the waterfall, had become very smooth and slippery.  I crossed slowly and with much hesitation, the water beat heavily upon my head and I was grateful for my raingear.  I crossed unscathed.  I turned to watch Justin.  His smile engulfed his face and he walked confidently into the raging downpour.  His steps were slow and methodical, but as he reached the final step his confidence overtook his caution and his feet gave out from underneath him.  He fell upon the rocks with a sickening thud.  The water pelted his face as he sat up quickly, still smiling, and finished his passage through the falls.  He came out hooting and hollering, “Woo-hoo! That’s what I expected this trip to be like! Yeah!” His smile was contagious.

The trail wound up the mountain side, waterfall after waterfall fell along side us, and the beauty of our surroundings only began to fade with the setting of the sun.  The small town of Bamboo emerged through the dwindling light, and our weary feet, aching backs, and sore throats sighed with relief.  A surreal setting met us as the guesthouse we chose to reside in was settled slightly above the river, near a rushing, vociferous waterfall.  Our room was damp but spacious, the beds comfortable enough to spend the next two nights resting up and reading.  Justin had passed his cold onto me, and the mountain air froze in my chest and face making it difficult to breathe.  Neither of us complained that we were ‘forced’ to rest up a few days here.  After two nights rest we headed back down the trail to conquer the tremendous, exhausting climb up to Syabru, a gorgeous mountain town nestled along the razor’s edge of a remarkable ridge.