Chapter Twelve: The Road Goes Ever On and On

The day grew long as we descended stone steps upon stone steps to the valley below.  Finally the road to Tatopani stretched out before us.  Before we reached the town, though, Hari led us over two swinging bridges.

  I had told him I’d like to see some of the swinging bridges.  We had to cross the river eventually anyway, so when we came upon the first one that day, we took it.  It was very sturdy – metal slats and chicken wire sides gave a sense of security as we passed over the roaring river far below.  Sajan bravely did the first traverse, carrying his heavy load on his back. He didn’t die, so I followed behind. I didn’t die.

  Rob and Hari completed our traverse.  They didn’t die.  We walked a few hundred yards up the riverbank, and then we had to cross another swinging bridge to get back on the right side of the river!  I realized then that Hari had us crossing the bridges just to please me! OH, dear guide, you could have passed on that one…I dutifully crossed the river once again, swaying over the rapids below.  I didn’t die.

We again took the long, winding, dusty road that eventually led us into Tatopani.  

By then my lungs were again heaving, this time with the dust from the road.  We had respiratory masks with us, but I was too tired to dig one out and put it on. Besides, it was hot.  How long was it going to take to get us to our guest house?

The road into Tatopani was under construction in a major way.  It looked like a sewer system or some kind of pipeline was being put in the road, as there were trenches on either side and piles of rocks and debris in the middle of the road.

The shops and homes on either side were reachable only by single wooden planks spanning the crevasses.  I guess if you’re born and raised in the Himalayas, height is just no big deal at all. I wearily followed the men through this mess, climbing once again up the side of a valley.

 We came to our final guesthouse, the Dhaulagiri Lodge.  It was a half-timbered stone structure, the nicest building in town.  I collapsed into a chair in the dining hall while Hari and Rob checked us in.  This guest house was bustling with people.  We were far enough down in the valley now to meet up with many groups of international trekkers taking refuge before they made their way up to Poon Hill, the usual destination.  We saw a group of British men who were in their seventies…several groups of young women were staying there, and lots of college kids were enjoying themselves with the local beer.

 Two of the best features of this lodge were 1) an actual hot shower, located in a cement stall in the center of the quad, and 2) natural hot springs, nestled in the rocky riverbed just a few minutes’ walk down a bluff from the guest house. I collapsed into the bed of our room as soon as we checked in, trying to summon the energy required to go take my first hot shower in days.  Rob went out and hung out with the guys, enjoying a local brew and chatting with the other trekkers and guides while I struggled to regain consciousness.  He came in to offer me dinner, but I couldn’t get out of bed.  Later, he ordered a magnificent baked fish dinner that was delivered to our room. It was huge.  The portions in the guest houses were always enormous, so we had taken to ordering one dinner and splitting it between us.  I had actually lost my appetite somewhere up there in the rooftop of the world.  It became a struggle to eat enough food to power the daily march.  This was truly amazing, since members of my family are not known to miss a meal.  In fact, if we do, you should take our pulse, because we’re probably dead.The Vietnamese fish dinner was scrumptious.  It was a huge fish of an unknown species, baked in a sweet, spicy sauce with moist rice, sautéed vegetables, and British chips (large, wedgy French fries.) Rob had a beer and I had a 7-Up. Soda was available at most of the guest houses, although I usually preferred tea.  I tried a sip of millet wine later in the evening, but it was really bitter.  Rob and I gobbled up the fish dinner with gusto.  We had been warned off any fresh vegetables or fruit and had so far avoided stomach issues in Nepal.  We later put our bathing suits on to go down to the hot springs, but the huge stone stairs to get into the riverbed were too much for my aching feet and legs.  This was the only day of the entire adventure during which my feet hurt beyond belief.  Hard and Rob walked 20 minutes to find me some super Ibuprofen to ease my pain.  While I returned to our room to recover,  I urged Rob to go on down to the hot springs without me, which he did.

 I had enough strength after that to wander up to the cement shower stall and get my hair clean for the first time in days.  That felt so good that I got dressed and went with Rob to sit in the outdoor patio area by the dining hall, looking up at the most magnificent sunset over Mount Dhaulagiri.  We ordered a veggie “pizza” that was pretty close to the real thing.  Hari saw us and came out, as did Sajan.  Hari played his wooden flute, which brought out other Nepali guides to come listen.  

It was a beautiful evening, a perfect way to finish off our trekking experience.  I was overwhelmed with gratitude for the fact that I had done it – I had trekked in Nepal, only ten years after an ordeal that would cause me to have six foot surgeries with an unknown future ahead of me.  I had trekked Nepal, weakened from Delhi Belly in India, and still reeling from bronchitis.  I had done it.  We had taken photos at the highest point of the trek in Ghorepani, which I sent to my foot surgeon, my physician, my physical therapist, and my YMCA trainer. All of them thanked me for sending that photo, which captured the moment of – literally – my highest achievement.  I thanked the Divine for keeping me on this journey.

Now that the trek was over, I could begin to process what we had come through.  When you’re fighting for breath, priorities change rapidly. Clean clothes and hair become a distant luxury – it’s enough to fall into a bed at the end of a day. Food is no longer something you indulge in out of boredom or just for pleasure, it’s necessary fuel that you have to choke down to get your body moving the next day.  The mountains are no longer just beautiful scenery; they become the shoulders of mighty wizards who look down upon us trekkers and shower us either with sunshine or with piercing hail.  They are not to be taken lightly.

 We slept well that night.  The next morning we descended the huge stone steps I couldn’t manage the night before to the river floor, walking out past the hot springs to the road where our Land Rover awaited us for the long drive back to the Eco Village.  It was a relief to sit in that vehicle even as it bucked and bumped over ruts, rocks, and ditches as we made our way back to our base camp.  The drive was unusually long due to several blockages in the road.  This area has frequent landslides.  We encountered the aftermath of a recent one which caused us to sit for quite a while while the local bulldozer dug out the road below. Another road was closed for major construction, so we took a very long detour that was really beautiful.  

When we finally arrived at the Eco Village, it was triumphant!  

I was so grateful to everyone who made it possible for me to accomplish this adventure.  Everyone crowded around us to hear how it went.  This was our last night in the Himalayas.  Rob had told me I would come to love it there, that it would get into my blood and my soul.  I had been keeping a journal daily in which I unloaded my negative thoughts (“This isn’t fun! This is really hard!  What the hell?!  This was supposed to be a good time!”)  Now I had to admit, and write, that I was not looking forward to making that final descent the next day, and the long ride back to Kathmandu.  I did not want this adventure to end.  We had a good dinner and headed to bed.