Mud, Magic Honey, and Faith-Based Driving in the Nepal Annapurna Region

 

Nepal Journal

Mud, Magic Honey, and Faith-Based Driving in the Nepal Annapurna Region 

Richard Carr

Fall 2019

Nepal is a faith-based nation. Temples, stupas, mani stones, gompas, and monasteries abound throughout the valleys, mountains and jungles of this majestic, mysterious, and muddy land. Colorful Buddhist prayer flags decorate taxis, restaurants, department stores, buses, and trucks, religious sites, and mountain summits. The presence of faith is also apparent in the way that Nepalis is drive. Technically you are supposed to drive on the left-hand side of the road. This doesn’t always turn out to be the case, however. When it becomes inconvenient, due to the poor quality of the road or the frustration of the driver, people sometimes switch over to the right side with no apologies: barreling down the wrong lane and nosing themselves back onto the left side if there’s any threat from oncoming traffic. Drivers speed fearlessly to the most advantageous open space in the road with unflinching faith that they will harm no one and that no one will crash into to them. 

This is not the way traffic works in New York, where I live, or even in cities like Boston or New Jersey known for their automotive trepidation. We have traffic lights, signs, and lines that we abide by in leu of faith. For the first few days in Kathmandu, I frustrated myself waiting for gaps in the traffic before safely crossing the street. Watching Nepalis closely, I gradually understood that there was an unspoken understanding. It’s completely acceptable to simply walk out into rushing traffic with the blind faith that all of those seemingly reckless buses, motorcycles and cars will miraculously avoid you. It has be faith in a higher power.

In September 2019, I booked a 14-day trek known as the Annapurna circuit. The trek entails traversing long distances; up and down steep mountainsides; along cliff edges; over wobbly, wire bridges; and slick, death-defying, stone stairs that can go on for 1000 meters.  This too requires a certain amount of faith. But the most perilous experiences were those that I had on four wheels.    

We embarked upon our journey from Kathmandu at 5AM in the morning. There were eleven of us: two guides, three porters, and six trekkers. The trekkers were an odd assortment comprised of Three Swiss men (Drei Schweizer) in their 20’s, A German man also in his twenties, A Spanish women in her 40’s , and (me) a 64-year old geezer from New York. We piled into a vehicle that was smaller than a bus but bigger than a van and started out on the paved road headed west toward Pokhara. There were thousands of kiranas (small stores filled with fast moving items) lining the roads in dilapidated buildings with rusted galvanized iron roofs. We sped along westward for about 6 hours until we turned to the north and onto dirt roads. In their on-line itinerary guide, G adventures describes this segment thusly:   

Settle in and scan the scenery from the convenience of a private vehicle.

Climb aboard, grab a seat, and enjoy the ride.

  

The roads became progressively riddled with deep ruts, holes and towering bumps that would rearrange your aching guts every couple of minutes. 

`20 miles south of Jagat, we piled into a large jeep and proceeded to ford a wide, 2-foot-deep, rushing stream; skirting our way past perilous mountain traverses where the road was so washed out it seemed like we only had a quarter inch of road between us and eternity 1000 meters below in a deep ravine. The driver seemed engaged, confident and filled with the faith that we will carry on. The six Westerners in the van: not so much. Each time we forded a small river, perhaps two feet deep and rushing, we closed our eyes, grabbed on to a handlebar, and thrust our heads down below the seat. We looked at each other with shocked amazement. Sometimes a vehicle would come from the opposite direction and it was anyone’s guess whether the driver would decide to keep left or switch over into the oncoming lane if it served his or her purpose in finding the most passable piece of road. 

Though the drivers beeped their horns constantly, we witnessed no road rage. There was an inexplicable order that rose from the chaos. Drivers proceeded with the expectation that there would be hundreds of close calls along the way; that there would be places where they would pass another vehicle by less than a quarter of an inch without any hesitation. Us Westerners were terrified. For the Nepalis, it was just another day. According to Buddhist teachings, suffering is an inevitable part of life.

We were grateful to still be alive when we reached the town of Jagat where we would begin 11 days of perilous, oxygen-deprived trekking in the high Himalaya. What else could possibly go wrong?

I have been on six previous treks with G Adventures: a company that organizes cultural tours and adventure outings throughout the world. You stay in humble lodgings and eat simple but hearty meals. I have previously immersed myself during these adventures in the beautiful mountain scenery and indigenous cultures of the Andes, Alps, and Himalayas. I knew what was coming. I knew the trek would be long and physically demanding. We would climb the world’s highest mountain pass enduring primitive and sometimes squalid conditions along the way. Be that as it may, I enjoy the challenge and struggle of these treks. When we are finished everyone in the group heaves a sigh of relief and raises a glass to celebrate. 

At 64 years old I was between 30 and 40 years older than my trekking companions. I knew that I’d be slower than them. We were in the last weeks of monsoon season. The first day of our trek entailed about nine hours of hiking over rugged, muddy terrain. 

In Kathmandu I had arranged with the guides to carry the low priced but durable violin that I bring along on all of my treks. Usually a guide or porter carries the violin in exchange for violin lessons. If all goes well, by the end of the trek, the carrier of my violin has learned how to play “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star”, or maybe “Happy Birthday”. Instrumental music education is scarce in many places and therefore any hands-on instrumental experience it is met with great enthusiasm. This also gives me a chance to play for the local people in the villages where we stay as well as my trekking buddies in the dining rooms of tea houses and refugios. After the first day on the trail were all fantastically spent. We had reached the stage at which any bed, no matter how primitive, was welcome and any food, no matter how basic was consumed with voracity. They say that hunger is the most delicious sauce. 

It was enjoyable getting to know the other people in the group. Despite the age difference we were able to effortlessly establish a relaxed comradery together. Though all of them spoke another language as their mother tongue, they all spoke admirable English, making it easy to converse. By the end of the day I was anywhere from 10 to 30 minutes behind the pack. They took off down the trail like fleet young bucks. I went slowly and steadily. As the trail grew steep and the air grew thin, they slowed their pace and discovered the Zen-like repetition of putting one foot in front of the another. Walking together through the towns of Chame, Lower Pasang, and Manang we bonded as a group. The experience of adventure and adversity brought us together and we were cheering each other on. Continuing to slowly put one foot in front of the other, we went higher and higher. First 8000 feet, then 9000 feet, then 10, 11, 12, 13, 14,000 feet. We spent the night in Phedi: at 14,400 feet: it was the last place we would sleep before making our final ascent to the Thorang-la pass (17700 ft.). 

To reach this highest mountain pass in the world we would ascend 3000 feet over the course of 5 km at an altitude that required one to walk at a deliberate, measured pace. Anyone inclined to suffer from the effects of high-altitude sickness will most certainly experience it here. Fortunately, I was hanging out with certified Billy goats who made it to the top of the pass with only minor complaints. In other groups that I had previously ascended the heights with, there had been a few people who would experience nausea, extreme headache, and dizziness to the point where they had to either rest or, in some cases, descend. None of this happened in our group. 

Five days before reaching the Thorang-la pass, I had noticed a dressmaker’s shop in the small village Bagarchhāp where we were spending the night. Some devil inside me whispered that the bunch of us should wear dresses and pose for a picture at the top of the pass. Besides me there were four guys in their twenties and a woman in her forties. I pitched the idea to everybody back at the tea house. Within five minutes, we were crowded into the shop trying on brightly colored, frumpy, floral-patterned dresses to the amused astonishment of the dressmaker and her employees. Our Nepali guides and porters wanted none of it.

We took the standard picture in mountain gear with guides and porters standing next to the sign that marked the highest point of the pass. It wasn’t the warmest day up there, in fact it was near freezing and beginning to snow, but we changed quickly into our comely dresses and posed for what is perhaps the most absurd mountaineering picture I have ever posted on social media. It was a testament to the indestructible high spirits of our group. The Nepali porters and guides were reduced to fits of laughter. 

And then we went down.

Most mountaineering accidents happen on the dissent. Everyone is relieved to have made it to the top. It’s easy to lose concentration on steep, descending  slopes and problems emerge. Fortunately, there were no problems like that with our group. There was some passing orthopedic damage in the form of knee, calf, and quadricep pain. We descended an ibuprofen-inducing 6000 feet down the other side of the pass into the town of Muktināth where we stayed at the festive Bob Marley Guest House. The lights flickered on and off all night, but the showers were hot, and the alcohol flowed.

 After reaching the high point of most treks: it’s time to head down and go home. With the Annapurna circuit trek: the Thorang-la pass is just the halfway mark. There is much more to experience and by the end you feel like you’ve run the gamut. The gamut began with another horrifying, internal-organ-scrambling, vertigo-inducing, nausea-provoking ride over hopelessly impossible, one-lane dirt (mud, rocks, fallen debris, rushing stream, one-inch-to-spare) roads that were heavily used by absurdly large vehicles like intercity buses, construction equipment, and 18-wheelers. Every hundred meters there was another near-death experience that had to be dealt with. Sometimes we were all so frightened that we held onto each other for emotional support. The no-nonsense passenger bus driver took us on a Little Shop of Horrors tour to Ghasa.

The itinerary guide described it this way:

Take a local bus to Kalopani and view the contrasting yellow hills against green farmland of the valley floor. View the Kali Gandaki, home to the deepest canyons.

 

The driver had a doorman who would let people in and out. There was never enough room for everyone on the bus and many people ended up standing in the isle. I don’t know how they carried on. It was all those of us who were fortunate enough have seats; holding on to various restraints and bars could do to keep from hitting our heads on the ceiling or rolling onto the floor. The members of our group sat in the front next to the driver so that we could get a full dose of his virtuosic driving and his constant yelling and grumbling. Only the deafening loud Nepali dance music that he played on the stereo seemed to sooth him. Minutes before the end of the ride, we had to negotiate our way around an active avalanche. That’s right AN ACTIVE AVALANCHE. Dirt and rocks from the cliffs above the road were now falling into the lane twenty feet ahead of us. The bus driver ordered his doorman to go out into the road and simply clear the rocks away. The doorman was, understandably, frightened to death of this task. He would move a few rocks and then duck his head and run away from where the active avalanche was slowly spilling dirt and rocks into the road. The bus driver loudly insisted that the terrified doorman move this rock and that. The doorman tried his best to obey but there is no mistaking his absolute trepidation. Finally, the bus driver waved the poor doorman to the side and audaciously drove the bus (bottoming out on shards of granite stabbing into the chassis) over the rubble while there was still dirt and rocks coming down on top of the bus. 

That was the climax. We exhaled with relief and leapt out of the bus, kissing the ground and thanking God that he/she spared us another day. Ghasa was a laid-back little town. It was a Nepali version of a mountain holler in West Virginia. The place had a battered, hillbilly feel to it that was at once decaying and beautiful. Beautiful, because of the verdant mountains and jungles that surround the village. Decaying, because of the dilapidated homes and abject poverty of its denizens. We settled into a cozy little hotel and many of us wandered around the stone pathways in the center of town. Two of the Swiss guys found a farmer who raised and slaughtered goats. They arranged to have a goat slaughtered for our dinner that night. They watched and photographed (yuck) the proceedings. Then the goat meat was brought over to the hotel where the proprietor made a kind of stew out of it. Being a vegetarian, I did not partake. 

It was an authentic experience and I couldn’t blame my meat-eating friends for indulging. 

We became friends with young boy named Assim. He just came over to the hotel and started hanging around. He was curious and friendly with wisdom and intelligence beyond his years and the confines of his life. We all took a liking to the little guy immediately. I taught him a little bit of violin and then he walked me, camera in tow, around town pointing at places where he thought I should take a picture. He was particularly fond of the chickens that ran through the streets. He insisted that I take copious pictures of the local yokels who all knew and adored him. 

Heavy rain was forecast for the next day and exposure to leeches became more likely as a consequence. Is there a soul on earth that welcomes the idea of a leech attaching itself to the skin and sucking the blood?  Leeches combined with torrential rain had no appeal to me. As it turned out there was the availability of the bus (the one we almost died on the day before), or perhaps a jeep that would take us to our next destination in Tatopani. One of the Swiss guys and myself decided to go on the road in a vehicle despite the crushing horror of its peril. The conditions were not quite as bad as the previous day and we managed to get a ride in a jeep that secretly conveyed our porters (they didn’t like leeches either) to the next hotel. 

The whole idea of a large bus going on these single-lane, washed-out roads is absolutely absurd and would probably be illegal in most places. But in this land of faith-based driving anything goes. It was all going pretty well until we met up with the goat rodeo of the day in the form of a large, heavy 18-wheeler, with the name “ Road King “ painted in bright yellow letters on the front grill, that was stuck on the sharp curve of a narrow traverse with cascading water coming down. Upwards of fifty men were unable pry it loose.  Hundreds of jeeps, taxis, buses and gravel trucks were backed up on either side of the disabled vehicle. Drivers from stranded vehicles got out and helped to fortify the area beneath the wheels with large rocks, creating harder sturdier surface that would enable the truck to become unstuck and out of the way. The process emancipating the 18-wheeler took about two hours and the participation of several dozen drivers, army personnel, and local police. It became a social scene. I caught up with people I’d met and various other parts of the Annapurna circuit. We were all stuck for a while and got out from our vehicles; walking around greeting each other and laughing about how this was just another day in the land of faith-based driving. The Swiss guy (Tizi) and I decided to walk along the road until we got to Tatopani or the jeep caught up with us. We walked for about 2 km before, miraculously, the truck had risen from the muck, making everyone else free to go on their way. Our jeep came up from behind us victoriously honking its horn and we hopped in. We still had about an hour’s drive along a ravaged road ahead of us. Tizi and I rode in the back seat. The expedition porters rode in the truck bed behind us: getting regularly sprayed by cascades that flowed down from the steep cliffs. Along the way we picked up two middle-aged women who knew our driver. They were dressed in ornate, red, silky outfits that many Hindu women wear come-what-may in the backcountry of Nepal. 

Reunited with the group and settled in our Tatopani hotel we noticed that there was a store next-door that sold magic honey. Magic honey, I had never heard of it before, is a psychedelic drug that is legal to buy and consume in Nepal. If you take the full dose you will be, out of commission, in an altered state for at least two days. Two members of our group sampled just small amounts of it and reported a hazy drunk and feeling accompanied by diarrhea. Most of us abstained. 

It was a long ascent from Tatopani to our next destination, Sikha. Many of the trails that wind through the high Himalaya have large stretches of stone staircases that can climb on for an hour or two or sharply descend steeply for the same amount of time. Going up requires a slow rhythmic determination. Going down requires steadfast focus insofar as it would be easy to slip on wet, mossy stone and crack your skull. 

The hotel in Sikha had a rooftop where you could go at daybreak and, if you were lucky, observe a crystal-clear view of the Himalaya. We did just that and were rewarded by an absolutely drop-dead, clear-as-a-bell view of Dhaulagiri the 7^th highest peak in the world. We stood there for at least an hour taking pictures and basking in the fabulous grandeur of the surroundings. 

From Sitka we spent another 4.5 hours climbing stairs up to the touristy town of Ghorapani. This popular town must’ve been built by the people who invented rocks because you have to climb steep stone stairs on either side get to the center of town. At the hotel I took out my violin stepped out onto the street; playing for gaggle of young kids between the ages of four and eight. My presence was such a curiosity to them that they couldn’t help but run and fetch their friends. I let them all pluck away on the strings. They did this with great joy then I played the fiddle like a ukulele and made a up song about the barking along with the dog who had been interrupting my show.

The next morning the group ascended another long staircase to the top of Poon Hill which has a signature view of the Annapurna range and serves as the “money shot” at the end of the circuit. We were supposed to be wakened at 4:30 and begin our hike, which takes about an hour to get to the top. I was dressed and waiting to go at 4:30 but didn’t hear a knock on my door until 5:30. This posited the group at the Poon Hill summit at about 6:30: too late for sunrise and into the time when clouds start to creep up and eventually obliterate the view. The head guide was coming down with a serious respiratory infection and was apparently too weak pry himself out of bed at 4:30 AM. 

Some people felt disappointed by this in so far as the other trekkers on the way down told us that we already missed the best part. Be that as it may, we ate a hearty breakfast, packed our things and headed down the most torturous 5 km of stairs imaginable. They were stone, they were slippery, and we descended 3000 knee-busting, quad-burning, calf-crippling feet. I was in a gruesome mood by time I reached the bottom. Advil and beer were the only cure. 

According to the itinerary guide:

Enjoy an early morning excursion to Poon Hill. Then venture to Ramghai, enjoying spectacular views of the Annapurna range along the way. Cross through forests, streams, and bridges to reach the final destination, Birethanti.

After sleeping in until 7:30 we walked down a muddy road – thick as diarrhea - for about an hour and a half and then climbed aboard another bus. It wasn’t really a bus, it was the same sort of small bus or a big van that we had come out in. The physical challenge of the trek was over, and the remainder of the day would be taken up by six hours of bumpy riding to Pokhara (second largest city in Nepal) by a beautiful lake. We stayed at a proper four-star hotel in Pokhara. The reacquaintance with clean toilets, hot showers, sanitary conditions, and quality food was like returning to a long-lost lover. 

Beer, wine and hard liquor were consumed eagerly at an end-of-journey celebration in an upscale garden restaurant. It would be the last time we got to hang out with our porters and assistant guide. It is the custom to present them with our thanks (and generous gratuities) at this time. We collected the money and put each individual tip into makeshift envelopes that we had made from computer paper. After failing to wriggle out of it, I was the one chosen to make the speech and presentation. Throughout the journey, most of the Nepalis we met called me Bàjè (Nepali for grandpa). There was no shaking the elder thing. I stood, and they stood, and I gave them their money - and of course called one of them by the wrong name. 

The next day presented us with what was billed as a six-hour drive to Kathmandu on paved road. 

We travel back to Kathmandu where the rest of the day is free for shopping, sightseeing, or relaxing in one of the many rooftop cafés.

This sounded like a drowsy little undertaking that would posit us at the end of our trail by late afternoon. 

But no. 

About ten miles outside of Kathmandu we got stuck the traffic jam from Hell. It was a Monday afternoon and the highway department had decided to do a small bit of paving on the principle, two-laned road that traveled between Pokhara and Kathmandu. Traffic was backed up for miles on each side of the paving operation. Trucks were at a halt. Both intercity and tourist buses filled with hot, frustrated people were also at a standstill. I took out my fiddle and played for some bored-looking folks while we’re stranded there. They looked on with interest but also a touch of hostility. Maybe they were just pissed off about being in a traffic jam. Tough crowd. 

I decided to walk. It was about 6- 7 miles uphill. Traffic would move from one direction at a time and with long, inexplicable pauses in between changes in direction. When the traffic moved, epic clouds of dust and exhaust fumes were overwhelming for an unfortunate soul walking along the side of the road. I spent most of the trek up the hill with my shirt pulled up over my nose, so as to filter out some of the noxious fumes. 

When I got to the top of the hill, I met up with our head guide and one of the Swiss guys. I told the Swiss guy I was done horsing around and the two of us hopped into a cab to the hotel while the guide waited for the others to show up in their own time as permitted by the traffic jam. We reunited as a group, hours later, at a restaurant in town. 

A few us stayed in town for another night. I upgraded to a high-tech, boutique hotel called Aloft. I enjoyed saying the word Allaawwhhffftt. 

Rise above the crowded, dusty streets of Kathmandu and rest your weary head at Allaawwhhffftt.

Enea and Rene (young guy trekkers still hanging around town) helped me move my stuff and settle in. It was the last night. I took Enea and Rene along head guide out to dinner. We debriefed over beer, dal bot and laughs. Enea and Rene went back to their hotel. The head guide invited me to ride on the back of his motorcycle back to Allaawwhhffftt.  On a motorbike for the first time in decades, in the cool night of the city, I felt young and free: renewed by the challenge.   

Walking from The Atlantic to the Mediterranean over the Pyrenees

If all you did was to listen to the news you would think that society was in such a divided state and so fraught with evil and violence that you couldn’t leave the house without risking peril. However, if you defy all that seems to be right in front of your nose and allow yourself to walk out the door and over the hills beyond the world of the familiar, you will be surelysurprised by the amount of kindness, compassion, and generosity that exists between common people who encounter each other in course of an average day. I have just flown from New York to France where I spent the night in Paris walking the streets until dark never feeling a moment of threat or danger. There were no terrorist attacks. There weren't people fist fighting on street corners over who is best to lead the country: LePen or Macron. It was in fact the same Paris that I visited on other occasions. Parisians have a reputation for being unfriendly, curt, petulant, and unhelpful. I have not found this to be the case in Paris any more than it is in New York, Tokyo, Istanbul, Lima, or Delhi. Urban spaces require one to maintain a certain focus to simply get through the mass of humanity and go from point A to point B. That Parisians do the same thing shouldn't come as a surprise. I have experienced the French to be accommodating, compassionate, extremely well mannered, lighthearted, and even playful. They are proud of their culture and sometimes suspicious of strangers. Even the smallest pleasantry or friendliness by a well-meaning traveler is almost certain to be reciprocated. I do not speak any decipherable kind of French. Yet in stilted conversations it is always my French counterpart who is apologetic. It was toward the end of June in 2017 that I took a train from Paris to the Hendaye on the border of France and Spain to begin a trek on the GR10: a long-distance hiking trail that goes over the rugged Pyrenees, west to east, from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean. The “GR” stands for Grande Randonee (long path). There are many Grande Randonees in France with different number but always the same red and white striped waymarks. If there is a divisiveness, evil, and suspicion in the world at large, it simply becomes less and less present once you start hiking the GR10. Once on the GR10 I experience the same camaraderie that I would on any other long-distance trail in the world. The religious, economic and political divisions that cripple our social interactions in the "civilized" world seem to drop away on a long and arduous trail where we are all reduced to the common denominator of human beings simply conveying ourselves through the splendor of nature. I was hesitant on the first day. I lay in bed that morning at a seaside hotel in Hendaye, listening to the crashing surf, unable to budge. 7:30 came and went, then 8 o'clock and then 8:30. Finally at 9:00 I pried my creaking, jet-lagged body from the bed. What in god’s name was I trying to prove? I am 62 years old for heaven’s sake. It had been a beautiful night of sleeping to music of the seashore. With the balcony door open and the pounding surf coming across the unfettered Atlantic I was lulled into bliss. I hadn't realized that Hendaye was such a surfer town. Hundreds of athletic young people in slick wetsuits rode the spiraling waves. It took quite a bit of self-determination to gather all my things into a backpack. A backpack which was clearly too large but for good reason. Although my accoutrements were few. I only brought three shirts, three pair of underwear, two pairs of shorts, a pair of pants, assorted toiletries and some electronics. The reason I brought the big 70-liter rucksack was to have enough room to fit a nice-sounding but cheap violin. Just in case you had any doubts, I am the kind of nut that walks hundreds of miles over steep mountains carrying the unnecessary added weight of a violin out of pure passion for music and a way to break the ice with my fellow randoneers. The violin case itself was made from a soft, lightweight vinyl but I could surround it with my clothes and sleeping bag, shielding it from harm even if I needed to throw it off a cliff. Hopefully not. I started walking uphill with the ocean at my back and headed east into the Pyrenees with the intention of spending the first night in Olhette. I took a wrong turn and ended up going full circle. After three bewildering hours I reached a location just a few miles outside of Hendaye. Worn-out, I collapsed into a humble bed in the small town of Biriatou. The hotel manager was a comical man with wine and cigarettes on his breath who asked me to wait while he actually changed the sheets and made up the room. He seemed apologetic but the room only cost €50. It was small and there was a decent restaurant down the street. There was a also vigorous game of going on in the small centre ville . Peloto is a kind of handball that shirtless young men like to play in the evenings. The game consists of hitting a small rubber ball against a wall (with or without a racquet) while sweating, swearing and arguing. Like all towns in Basque country, the village was a collection of stucco houses, all painted white. The shutters are red, and the roofs are of terra-cotta tile. The front door, exposed to the east if possible, traditionally displays the date of construction and the name of the owner above the entrance. The extraordinary conformity of the architecture is a hard to imagine in the current world full of ego and fierce individualism. The Basque people have a long and interesting history. They managed to stay under the radar when the Phoenicians and Romans came sniffing around. Napoleon scarcely bothered with them. Their language is one of the hardest in the world to learn. In the mid 20th century Generalissimo Franco came after them with aggressive force. He tried to outlaw the teaching of their language (Euskera) in school. This led to the formation of a separatist movement called the ETA which used many of same terrorist devices as the IRA. On the morning of the second day I started uphill again, this time taking the correct turn, and after a hike of at least 8 1/2 hours I plonked myself down in a chair at a café in the center of Ohlette. I asked the woman there for a tall cold carafe of water and a Coca-Cola. She had no food but that was okay with me there were plenty of à prix réduit restaurants in town. I was so exhausted and covered with sweat from the day, which had been cloudless and 90°, that the idea of setting up camp was simply too much work. I had brought a small lightweight tent and an inflatable mattress with me although it would be several days before I actually used them. The next two days were arduous and long. The average walk was about 15 miles and took between 8 and 9 hours of going up and down steep hills. Throughout the course of these first few days I became acquainted with three other hikers all engaged in the same task as me. We all intended to hike the entire GR10 as best as we could in terms of ability, money, time, and fortitude. One was an Englishman, about my age, from Bristol. He was semi-retired and intended to hike all summer. He had walked several of the caminos in Northern Spain and this was his first hike through the GR10. He had the intention of hiking all the way to the Mediterranean and then back to the Atlantic over the high route. I met a determined young woman from Tasmania. She had been trapped in an office job in Paris for the last two years and it had been become her sustaining dream during that time to hike the GR10 before she left France. She was pleasant, purposeful, sensible and fit. Perhaps she would be the most likely to succeed. Another younger woman, about my daughter’s age, from Ireland was also in about the same rhythm as myself and the others. She was an ICU nurse from Dublin who got pissed off and quit her job. She injured her leg, causeing her to limp as far as Bidarry before hanging up her rucksack. The pass that one climbs before descending into Bidarry is significant in many ways. First of all, it is the last time you'll see the Atlantic. For three days when I looked to the west, I could still see the broadening horizon of the Atlantic. At first I could only see the cities of Hendaye and Irun across the Spainish border . After a while I could also see Saint-Jean du Luz, San Sebastian and more and more of the other coastal cities. When I reached the Col des Veaux, I could take one last look west at the at the Atlantic and also to the east get a first look at the high Pyrenees which were jagged and foreboding. The descent from the Col des Veaux into Bidarry was described in my guidebook as the most harrowing dissent on the GR10. I was glad to know there's nothing harder. There were many places where metal cables provided an opportunity to hold on for dear life so that you don’t slip and fall a thousand feet into a gorge below. All along this trepidatious section there were vertigo-inducing, narrow passages that traversed along a sheer, precipitous hillside. The path itself was never more than 2 feet wide. Someone who honestly suffered from vertigo would never be able to successfully make thier way through this endless long traverse without passing out. As a bonus, there were also large sections of rock talus to negotiate. At the bottom of this dissent I met up with the other three people that I've gotten to know all sitting in the shade. I yelled ahead to them "fucks sake!" "and they roared with laughter. The perils of mountaineering can bring a quick camaraderie. In Bidarry I stayed at a hotel next to the train tracks. It was cheap but there were profuse flies. I had noticed so far, during the last five days in Basque country, that there were an inordinate number of flies everywhere. One simply had to forgive them for crawling all over one's food or strolling up and down one's skin like shoppers at a mall. There were too many of them to even begin swatting. I was told later that the fly problem was unusual and peculiar to this particular year. The next big destination was the major tourist town Sainte-Jean-Pied-du-port; where the Gr10 intersects with the Camino Santiago de Compestella. The Camino de Santiago is a less arduous than the GR10 and it attracts people of all ages, shapes and speeds. The kind of folks you might meet on a cruise ship. They love to shop and eat. They stop along The Way in places like Saint John Pied du Port to do that. A significant number of businesses have cropped up in Saint John Pied du Port selling French berets and Basque country T-shirts. Also, you can get yourself a handy wooden walking stick: even some with bells if you really want to annoy other people on the trail. Saint John Pied du Port is also a great place to eat pizza and do your laundry. It has a supermarket in the town. This was my first experience with a mega supermarket in France. Carrefour is a modeled after ShopRite or Tops in the US. The difference is that instead of having everything together in one coherent section, stuff is spread out along the various aisles in the way that is difficult for a disoriented consumer with a language handicap to understand. Simply trying to find a suitable small bottle of shampoo turned into a scavenger hunt. I didn't know the French words used to describe the maintenance of one's coiffure. I ended up with a bottle of some amber colored substance that seemed to make my hair greasier that it was to begin with. For this I paid seven euros. It must be a style. The journey took an interesting turn after I left Sainte-Jean-Pied-du-port. I walked all day and finally, after eight hours of trekking, mostly uphill, reached the Gite Kaskoleta placed obscurely on a hilltop. The gite is a kind of trailside lodging that one encounters all over France in places where people hike. It is usually a place that offers tent sites and also a dormitory style sleeping facility. Also, as a part of the deal they will feed you a basic dinner as well as a very basic breakfast. It’s certainly not four-star lodging but usually it only costs between 40 and 50 euros per night for two meals and a bed: affordable for the lean-pocketed randoneer. As I approached the gite I heard the uproar of joyous laughter. I took this as a warm greeting at the end of a long day. As I entered the fenced-in area I saw two women from Germany who were lying side-by-side on the picnic table and gazing at the sky. We greeted each other in French and then they began to speak English to me. I asked if there was anyone inside to talk to about a room and a meal. They said they weren't sure but the woman who ran the gite said she might come by at about 6 o'clock. Inside the gite was a garrulous group of people laughing and joking in French. I greeted them in French. D'ou etes- vous ? they asked. “New York” I said. I asked them about the femme who ran the gite. They had the same answer as the German women outside. It was 5 o'clock; I was knackered as shit from the days trek and stretched out upstairs on the floor to take a nap. At around six I woke up and heard increased activity accompanied by the sound of a new animated voice. It turned out to be the mystérieuse femme who ran the gite. I approached her. Everyone was silent as I asked her in French if could I eat and sleep there. “Bien sûr” she responded. I sat down with the jovial Europeans and had an enjoyable meal where we had a lighthearted witty conversation that switched back and forth from French to German to English. Many Europeans do that with admirable aplomb. They asked me why my backpack was so big. It must be very heavy they thought. I said that most of the space was taken up by my violin. Immediately they were interested that I carried a violin in my backpack. Could I play it for them? I did. They were delighted. I played them some Gypsy music and then some Irish music and then I improvised a song called the “Gite Blues”. In the text of the song I described the pros and cons of staying at a gite. The pros being the friendly company. The cons were the fact that people in the dormitories (dortoir in French) snored at night. I changed the name to “snoretoir”. They laughed with the total delight at my rendition of the “Gite Blues”. For the next five nights, I traveled from one gite to another with the same group. We all followed the itinerary of the same guidebook. Each night we spent together laughing, music making, wine drinking, and in general feeling the highest of spirits. If only life could be this way always. The days were arduous: hiking up and down the steep hills but as soon as we stopped at night it took me only 10 minutes to recover and I felt a glow from the day that lasted into the evening with the great company of my hiking companions. The two women from Germany had done NGO work both in Africa and in South America. Two men who were teachers worked in the vicinity of Lyon. There was also an outgoing couple from Paris who were both microbiologists. They were all young, athletic, healthy and hiked quite a bit faster than me. I also got lost and took naps more often. It went on like this for six days until we got to Refuge Jeandel. The next day I trekked my nebulous way through a ski area that did not seem to support the Gr10. There were no longer waymarks (little red and white blazes painted on trees and rocks). I got lost. Really lost. I ended up skidding down a ski slope that was 100% rock scree and almost as steep as a cliff. I got to the bottom of the slope and still there were no trail markers. I was hot, tired, pissed-off, and decided that I would simply hitchhike to the nearest big town. 

                                             

In Orlon Saint Marie. I settled into a comfortable hotel, bought groceries, did my laundry, catching up on sleep and email correspondence. It took two showers to get six days of hiker grit off of my body. Almost no one I had met so far had the initial impression that I was American. Most people thought I was English. Part of this was because Americans almost never hike the GR 10. Most people were surprised to learn that I was from New York. They asked me about Donald Trump. I told them that like 90% of all French people I did not support his policies. The next day: July 14 would be Bastille Day. I wondered if Trump's arrival in Paris for a state visit with Macron might incite the masses. After a 24-hour escape from the GR10, I rejoined my comrades in the small town of Etsaut for one last night of revelry. They were a gift. Before embarking on this adventure, I thought that I would spend six weeks talking to almost no one. I had expected to be in the wilderness in a country where I barely speak the language. I thought for sure, after I had left my friends in Etsaut, that things would get quieter. After drinking schnapps in a bar until midnight I slept the “dead sleep of a mountaineer”, as John Muir used to say. A drunken mountaineer. I commenced the next morning, climbing nearly 5000 feet to the top of the col D'Ayous . This took 7 hours of huffing, puffing, and cursing under my breath. About three quarters through the climb I came upon a cabin inhabited by sheepherders. They were often visited by hikers on this popular route. This particular day, they were visited by family members who had brought them beer and an anise flavored liquor called Ricard. I took my rest beside them and drink water from their spigot. Like many before them, they asked me why I carry such a big rucksack. I told him that I carried a violin. They wanted to see and hear it. I showed it to them and then played it. They responded favorably and took lots of pictures and videos. There must be alot pictures and videos of my eccentric, violin-playing image in people’s homes all over the world. A strange and remarkable extension of my life. After the sheepherders, I spent another three hours climbing up to the top of the col. When I finally reached the top, all was forgiven. The view was perhaps one of the most breathtaking in Europe. A photograph or postcard must exist on many a refridgerator in France. From the pass you could behold grand view of the iconic Pic Midi D'ossau. Just a few hundred feet below the col was a refuge and two lakes. The refuge itself was crowded as it's a very popular spot to hike to and spend the night. During the time I passed the refuge there had been the added excitement of the helicopter rescue. I was not close enough to the building to know exactly what had happened. But the helicopter added to the mountaineering thrill of it all. I set up my tent at the second smaller lake. I was hoping to get a quiet night’s sleep there beside a stream. All went well until about 9 o'clock when five teenage men showed up with their soccer ball, loud rock 'n' roll, and cheap booze. It seemed pointless to go over and tell them to quiet down. They would have told me to f--- off just like I would've done in a similar situation when I was a teenager. I plugged my ears and tried, with limited success, to sleep. Fortunately, I had only a short downhill hike the next day to get to the next town Gabas. Walking down the mountain, I passed at least 500 people on their way up. I had arrived at the most popular area of the high Pyrenees. I felt as if I were at the Grand Canyon or Machu Picchu or a Manchester United match. It was all people in clean well-pressed casual clothing. They looked odd as if they had come from a place that I was unfamiliar with. When I reached Gabas I was given pause. I knew that I didn't have enough time to actually complete the entire 500+ miles of the GR10. At best, I had perhaps enough time to hike another 200 miles. I had to map out a plan to start 200 miles west of the Mediterranean and hike my way east. I was put off by the crowds in the High Pyrenees and I knew the next section, the Areige, would be remote, filled with deep valleys and sparse settlements with very few places to get supplies. I thought, at some later date, I'd like to do that section with someone else and not by myself. And so, I decided to take a bus north so that I might get to a train east. I sat by the road at a bus stop in Gabas. The schedule posted at the bus stop was too confusing for me to understand. Luckily, the bus driver from the same line stopped across the street from me and rolled down his window, helpfully advising me that it would be five hours before he would return to pick me up. This was disappointing news and the previous night's lack of sleep was making my eyes heavy. I decided to try hitchhiking for the next 15 minutes and if that didn't work out, I would just get a hotel room right there in the town of Gabas and catch the bus in the morning. About 10 cars went by before an old Toyota with two women in their 60s pulled over and offered me a ride to a town about 30 km north. By the time they got to the town it was decided that I should stay at their home in the beautiful town of Arudy. They had an extra room with a soft bed. They also had a refrigerator full of exquisite food and wine. I played the violin and they listened raptly. Simultaneously, they were visited by a woman from Britany and her two daughters. The youngest of whom, about 11 years old, had just taken up the violin a year and 1/2 before. I played along with her as she went through her repertoire of tunes in her school music book. We had a delicious multi-course meal, and a leisurely stroll along the Gave d’Ossau river. My hosts were, witty, thoughtful, and erudite. They were a gift from god. My head grew hazy with French wine and I slept like a baby. These two women, angels that they were, drove me out of pure kindness to the city of Pau where I caught a train north to Toulouse, then east to Foix, and then south to the famous mineral baths of Ax-les-thermes I experienced my second Pyrenees thunderstorm in the town of Ax-les-thermes. As I walked from the train station into town in search of a hotel a biblical deluge came down. A Frenchman had taught me the expression Il pleut comme cache qui pisse “rain like pissing cows” just a few weeks before in Logibar after I spent the night sleeping in my tent during a violent thunderstorm. In Ax-les-thermes there were golf ball hailstones falling from the sky. My rain gear and pack cover were put through their paces. They became necessary within the time span of about 30 seconds. For 10 minutes, I huddled under a tree and prayed to that vague entity I call god for the torrent to stop. Soaked to the point of misery, the pisse let up just enough so that I could start looking for a hotel. This little town was crowded during ski season you could tell, but in the middle of July it seemed like a ghost town. Crowds of people did crawl out of the woodwork shortly after Il pleut comme cache qui pisse had stopped. Nevertheless, finding a hotel was harder than I thought. This may be because I took a few wrong turns in my haste to get out of the storm and didn’t go to the center of the village. I did find a gite which pleased me and decided to stay two nights so that I could enjoy the pleasure le bains. I am used to hot, hot springs that turn my skin pink and leave me feeling like a marshmallow. The waters of the main bath house in town were mostly tepid although I did find one small pool that was just a few degrees over 100 F. I hadn’t brought a bathing suit but, no worries, they had a sexy, black, French one on the premises that I was able to purchase for a mere 20 euros. Mirren les Vals is a 20 minute train ride from Ax les Thermes. My guidebook said that it was an easy 12 km walk from the trailhead to the refuge Besines. It was more like a 15k walk and the trail was full of rocks. Gone were the grassy tracks and smooth roads (and sadly the Gateau Basque) of Basque Country. I was now traveling in another section of the GR 10: one in which the path is strewn with hefty rocks of granite. It felt more and more like the White Mountains of New Hampshire. There is no mountain range I have hiked in the whole world that has kicked my ass more than the White Mountains of New Hampshire. My cul was getting kicked French style. I arrived exhausted to the refuge at Besines. To my delight, I discovered that there was a number of musicians at the refuge (a refuge is really just another kind of gite) along with a recording and film crew. These four musicians were part of the band that was doing a tour of 42 different refuges in the Pyrenees. They were skilled musicians and played variations on Django Reinhardt influenced gypsy jazz. I told them I had a violin with me. They were happy to hear this, and I ended up playing with them both in their concert at the refuge and also in a very enjoyable jam session afterward. There was a good size crowd at the refuge who were attentive listeners. There was never a second of rudeness from the audience who, after all, got to attend this concert for free. I enjoyed myself immensely and I believe the others who performed with enjoyed playing with me too. 

The next day, glowing from the night before, I continued the trek. It turned out to be the most difficult day of the entire GR 10 adventure so far. Again, this was described in the guidebook as an “easy” day that featured two "easy" passes. Nothing to it. The first pass was nearly 8000 feet high and to get to the top of it there was some perilous rock scrambling which was made harder by the weight of my pack. A heavy pack will make it harder to find your balance on unstable ground. I was relieved to reach the top uninjured. Ironically after all of that difficult rock scrambling I managed to fall once I got to an easy path on my way down the other side. I simply fell because my foot got caught in an unseen little hole. My weight went forward and I fell to the ground bracing my fall with my hands. Rolling is not an option when you carry a big pack. The middle finger of my left hand became dislocated for only 1/2 a second. I could feel it pop out and then pop back in quickly. I knew from experience that this meant I was going to have limited flexibility in that finger for at least a few weeks to come. Hopefully this amounted to just a small sprain in the finger and not a complete break. A few years earlier I had broken the forefinger next to it and it had taken almost 6 months to really regain the motion and flexibility necessary to play a stringed instrument at a professional level. I was hoping to avoid going through the same kind of rehabilitation process with this finger. I spent the rest of the journey worrying about my finger: hoping for the best but dreading the worst. The next pass was just as high but did not require the same arduous rock scrambling as the first. The relief was short-lived because the dissent to the next refuge at La Bouillouses was much, much longer than had been described in my guide. It went on for what seemed like a century. And then it started to rain. My rain luck was running out. Excepting the walk from the train station in Ax-les-therme, all of the rain I encountered so far had been at night when I was tucked away in a tent or an indoor shelter of some kind. Hiking in the rain is a miserable thing to have to do. When I am at home and have a choice, I will always back away from hiking in the rain. It's cold, it's wet, and it on this particular day added to the misery of a long trip. Moreover, I was grousing to myself about my finger. Finally, I reached a lovely hotel on the edge of the lake. This idyllic place had not been in my guidebook. They had a single room that I could spend the night in. This was welcome to me because the previous two nights I had spent in bunkrooms where people snore, grunt, talk in their sleep, and do other annoying things during the night. I needed to catch up on some sleep and heal my wounds. The hotel chef prepared some stir-fried vegetables with rice for me. It tasted like the King’s feast compared to the omelets and stale bread I had been eating at the gites and refuges. The next day was also advertised in my guide as an "easy" day of about four hours walking mostly downhill. This turned out to be not true at all. Within an hour of my departure from the hotel it started to rain. Once again it was Il pleut comme cache qui pisse. My finger was swelling up and turning purple. And now I was going to have to hike perhaps all day in the Il pleut comme cache qui pisse. Adding to the list of woes, the heel of my left foot was starting to swell with pain and every step was uncomfortable. I pulled out my iPhone and called my wife. I told her of my misery while standing under a tree in the forest in the Il pleut comme cache qui pisse. I got to share my troubles for only a minute before the cellular magic ended and we were cut off. My heart sank. I reached the destination eight hours later. Thankfully the sun had come out for the last four hours the trek and I arrived in the beautiful little town of Bolquere. The hotel Lassus was run by a super friendly couple who spoke spot-on English. They we're filled with positive energy and eager to please. They had a restaurant that serves the whole village and the first night they prepared me some unbelievably delicious calamari. I was so impressed by the place that I decided to spend another night. I needed more time rest my foot. My finger looked like sausage, and now my iPhone would not charge when I plugged it in the wall. On the next day, I took the phone to little fix-it shop. The lady there said that my charging port was damaged and that she could replace it but that it would take three or four days for the part to reach her. She, using some kind of magic, managed to plug my depleted phone in her charger and got the phone to charge slowly for couple of hours so that I was up to 50%. Now I had and aching middle finger on my left hand, an expensive kind of pain in my left heel with each step that I walked, and a phone that had only 50% power and no capability charge. Putain!!! There was only one choice. Barcelona. The little town of Bolquere was about a four-hour train ride from the great city of Barcelona in Catalonia (they’ve never been comfortable with Spain). It was the nearest major city and it had the kind of things I needed. I could rest in a comfortable hotel for a few days, get my phone fixed at the Apple store, and get a splint for my finger as well as some anti-inflammatory pills and creams. I boarded a train at a station that was just over the border in Spain. I purchased a ticket at the window. I walked out to the platform and began to wait. The man who had been in the ticket line behind me was speaking in an angry voice to a woman on the platform. I was confused at first when she came over to me and began speaking in English. The guy behind me in the ticket line didn’t speak any English but he wanted the woman the explain to me that the clerk in the ticket booth had shortchanged me by 5 euros. She led me back up to the counter and gave the clerk a piece of her mind. The clerk sheepishly took out 5 euros and returned it to me. I thanked the woman profusely. She told me that they often take advantage of foreigners who are not familiar with the currency. These were my first moments on Spanish/Catalonian soil and already I was impressed by the dogged pursuit of decency. It turned out that the hotel at that I had booked through Expedia was full. Rather than just turn me out on the street they had transferred my booking to a hotel in the center of the city that belonged to the same company. It was a four-star hotel that had a sauna, steam room, and Jacuzzi that I could utilize to help my bones heal from the rocky road I had traveled. Things were starting to look up again. During this time, I stayed in contact with my wife despite the dwindling battery power of my phone. She gave me useful medical advice. I went out and bought heel inserts for my shoes. I got a splint for my finger, and I replaced my phone at the Apple store around the corner from the hotel. Barcelona itself is overrun with tourists. They seem like the same tourists I encounter in Times Square New York City. People of the middle classes and upper middle classes of Asia, Europe, and US were all there in full force: on the beaches, at the tapas bars, and shopping on the Ramblas. They all wear brightly colored, sensible clothes and love to shop and eat. Their obsession with taking photographs of themselves was fully evident at all places of interest. "Selfie sticks" that lengthen the distance between camera and subject, are an extension of this rampant self-love. There are some people who simply make iPhone videos of their every movement as they travel through the world so as to document an experience that they aren't really having. I was healing: my phone worked again, my foot was getting better and even my finger wasn't too bad. I decided to go back to the GR 10 and try to make my way to the end. If my foot starts to hurt too much than I will have to pack it in, but I don’t want to go out like that. I took a train from Barcelona to Vernet les Bains and continued my progress from there. My intention had been to only hike four or five hours each day. I wanted to take it easy on my heel and not rush through Paradise like it’s the Long Island Expressway. I plotted out an 11-day course that would lead me in the terminal city of Banyuls sur Mer on the Mediterranean. But, surprisingly, four or five hours passed and I still felt good enough to carry-on. The first night I spent in an eco-gite. The family who ran the place made all the meals they served from local organic vegetables and natural materials in general. They even made their own organic wine which was damn good. That night I became friendly with a tall blonde Dutch couple who had actually been living in Norway for the past 20 years. They were immediate admirers of my music and we struck up an easy rapport. Concurrently, the three of us became friends with a French woman who worked for the European Union in Brussels. These were just plain old good folks to sit down and talk with and have a laugh. I had embarked upon this journey not expecting to interface with much of anyone. The remoteness of the region and my lack of facility with the language made me think that conversation was not going to be my main activity. That was OK. I have been a teacher for many years, and the job requires intense social interaction every day. It’s not so bad to spend some time alone with my thoughts. In retrospect, it might’ve been awfully depressing if there had been no one to talk to. It is it those quiet moments when I am not active that my heart aches for my family the most. Thankfully, in this day and age, we have social media so that I can post pictures and they can comment on them. This ability to keep in touch was interrupted once again after a few days back on the trail by the malfunction of the phone I had just acquired in Barcelona. The iPhone 6s plus, is known to have trouble the touchscreen. I was attempting to call home from atop a high col when the touchscreen simply stopped working. This brought on a frantic state of frustration: tapping away hopelessly, trying can’t get any kind of response from the lifeless phone. My biggest concern was that I maintain contact with my wife who, if she doesn’t hear from me after a few days, starts to worry. I ended up borrowing other people’s phones just so that I could either have a short conversation with my wife or leave a reassuring message. Another sad thing about the malfunction of my phone was that I could no longer take pictures. My Facebook followers had been enjoying the GR10 photos and I hoped to give them a visual representation of what the final days of the trip was like. The final days were indeed worth photographing. With the silhouette of Canigo to the west; the sun setting behind it, and the Mediterranean getting closer and closer to the east: like cobalt blue glass from the high points along the path. The terrain was semi-arid like Colorado. There was the same kind of slippery sand and rock scree. There is also plenty of lovely coniferous forests like you see along the Colorado Trail. I felt at one with the trail. My foot pain magically disappeared. I glowed with the peace and satisfaction having made it this far. I’d skipped some parts of the GR 10 but still, had walked most of it. Over 300 miles of it for sure. I met lots of great folks and played the fiddle at night in the gites for them. I’ve gone through several different geographic and temperate zones to get to this final stage. It was a great feeling of satisfaction. My skin had turned tawny from the summer sun. Along the way I had eaten all kinds of different food: some good, some of it bad but it all made a safe trip though my digestive tract. I never got sick to my stomach. I usually slept well at night even in the dormitories. There were people who snored but many nights I was so tired I couldn’t even pay attention. Walking up and down steep hills for 15 or 20 miles each day will bring on the heavy Z’s. The last days felt bittersweet. I’ve grown accustomed to the long walk each day. There was a routine to it all. I would assemble my gear in the afoe-mentioned oversized 70 L Dueter backpack. After a, typically unspectacular, breakfast of bread jam, butter, and coffee. I secured enough water and I slowly set out walking no more than 2 mph at first to get my body in motion. If I started out to fast, I would feel sore in my legs and short of breath. It took an hour of warming up before I could get the engine running at full capacity. There were many young, athletic people in their 20s who would race past me like Lamborghinis on the Autobahn. One day a young German man fell into step with me and we talked a lot about our hiking experiences. He was impressed at all the places I’ve gone and all the hiking I had done, but he still had one question in his mind. He asked me why, with all my experience, that I carry such a big and heavy rucksack. I told him about the violin inside and that it was more cumbersome and big than it was heavy. Although I did in fact carry somewhere between 15 and 20 kg in my bag depending on how much water and food I had had on board. He had told me that his goal for the day was to get another 25 miles down the trail. I wondered why he needed to rush through paradise. He said he felt bored if he didn’t keep moving. I wondered if he was just afraid of himself. If you slow down, you will start to hear your own mind working; you’ll start to get in touch with your own inner dialogue. To many people, this is a difficult thing. One of the most meaningful experiences for me when I am hiking down the trail is to stop and simply observe my surroundings: to see it, smell it, and feel the wind against my face. This is what life is. Life is what happens when you stop in a natural setting where there’s nothing man-made to look at and you simply take in the truth and beauty. We spend most of our lives either producing or consuming. We’re used to life being a construction: some virtual reality created by digital media. Everything in that world is designed to entertain and enthrall. To fill the canvas completely so that there is no empty space: no place where the imagination can cut loose. I come to the woods to let my mind off the leash. I feel privileged to take in these rare moments when nothing man-made can interfere with my experience of the world. It could easily have been 100°F the day I walked the final 22k to the seaside town Banyuls sur Mer on the Mediterranean coast. There was no place to get water during the last 15k of the walk. By the time I reached the beautiful coastal city I was in a potentially dangerous state of dehydration. I found a supermarket and immediately bought a cold, one-and-a-half-liter bottle of water. Triumphantly I walked down the street towards the Mediterranean to claim my victorious completion of the GR 10. Conveniently, the terminal point is across the street from the tourist office. Thanks to the people who worked there, I managed to reserve a room at the same hotel where two of my Dutch/Norwegian trail buddies were also staying. I took them out for a fancy dinner by the shore where we drank delicious local wine and ate delicious local seafood. I knew I would have to say goodbye to the trail, and I would have to find some other purpose to life. For the past month or so the only purpose in my life was to get up walk, reach a destination, unpack, shower wash my clothes, eat, play some fiddle, go to sleep and repeat the next day. After a tearful goodbye to Banyuls, my first destination was Paris. In the City of Lights, I could replace the broken phone that I got in Barcelona with a new one for free. I could get my laundry done insofar as washing my clothes in the sink each night was not adequate to keep them from smelling like a sock that has been in your gym locker for a year. I could also organize next phase of my trip. With the few days I had leftover until my August 10 departure from Charles de Gaulle airport I planned to visit the Brittany coast and do a little hiking on the GR 34. The Hotel I stayed in Paris was one that I simply stumbled upon. I had made no reservation. It was called the Drawing Hotel. It had a drawing museum and bookstore in the hotel and a very friendly staff who appointed me with a nice room. They had an abundant breakfast buffet which they gave to me complementary because I told them I completed the GR 10. It was a nice change of pace from the stale baguette and jam that I had reconciled myself to in the gites. The hotel was and about a one hour walk from Gare Montparnasse where I would catch series of trains up to the Brittany coast. Since I was no stranger to walking for an hour with my heavy pack, I took on the task with eagerness and excitement. Montparnasse is a posh section of Paris and I got to see the high-end designer stores and all the fashionable people while I was walking to the train station. I proudly strutted past these lightweight city slickers in my worn hiking clothes, never for a minute envious of their high-priced threads. The Brittany coast has wide impressive beaches, but it's also quite rocky in other places and reminds me of the Maine coast. The temperature was a good 20° cooler then the part of southern France where I was on the Mediterranean. The town of Sainte Malo is a crowded one. The beaches are vast and beautiful, the old city is medieval surrounded by ancient stone walls. It’s not the kind of place where I like to hang out for more than a day or so. There were “cruise ship” people everywhere - lots of families with small children. The kids made me miss my grandkids and I enjoyed just watching them run around joyously. It did not surprise me to observe the amount of bickering families do during their vacations. I have witnessed this in many resort communities during the summer. Every member of the family has their own set of expectations. Sooner or later someone becomes a hindrance by keeping other family members from the things that make them happy. Still it is when I’m in communities that are full of lovely families and I am by myself that I feel the loneliest. There are very few people here that are on their own. On the trails of the GR10 was not at all unusual to see someone hiking by themselves however, in Saint Malo, there were very few people who walked alone as I did.

The Wild Road to Everest Base Camp October 2018

The Wild Road to Everest Base Camp October 2018

Kathmandu is an assault to the senses. It rivals cities in India for nihilistic traffic, pollution, dust- borne pathogens, impossible crosswalks, and crowded store fronts - always with the obligatory guy sitting on the steps in front urging you to come in and buy his counterfeit stuff. In theory, traffic is supposed to keep to the left, as it does in England or Japan. In practice: any open space is fair game. Traffic is ostensibly controlled by ineffectual men in uniform that spend most of their time cowering in small wooden booths but do sometimes immerge to waive long red wands in the air until they are tired of being ignored.

Almost immediately upon exiting the hotel I met the universal young man who approaches:

“Hello sir. How are you?
Where are you from?
What are you looking for today? 
“These guys are everywhere: Istanbul, Dar es Salaam, Delhi, and Buenos Aires. I have learned how to politely decline their advances. Most of them are just trying to make ends meet by shaking me down. Countries like India and Nepal are powerfully spiritual, and the idea of actually robbing someone is beyond the morality of most people. They will only commit the robbery that you agree to. They will try to provide a service at an exorbitant cost hoping that your ignorance of local prices will provide an opportunity. I don’t disapprove. Most are in dire financial straits and I am a rich man by comparison. I don’t mind paying a little extra if it helps them through their lives.

Kathmandu is relentless. Humanity keeps coming toward you like an ocean: endless and bountiful. Many streets overflow with buzzing swarms of cheap motorcycles. Motorcycle ridership is not restricted to young rebels or paunchy old man seeking to pursue a midlife fantasy. Women and men of all varieties take to the road on motorcycles and motor scooters as a cheap way to get to the hardware store or take a little girl in a tutu to dance class. There are also small, battered, privately-owned, buses that the humble people of the city crunch themselves into. They are never air-conditioned and always unbearably crowded. Riders have to touch each other a lot. They look miserable.

Tourists gravitate to the Thamel section of town. This area was hippy heaven in the 1960s and 70s. There are endless narrow streets with small store fronts that sell climbing and trekking gear: some of which is counterfeit and made in neighboring China. I’ve heard that the counterfeit gear is of good quality. I once purchased a counterfeit Northface backpack in Kashmir for $35. It was well-made and probably came from the same factory as the real one.
There are plenty of restaurants that will offer spicy food to challenge your digestive track. The tap water is tainted. Between- spicy food, air pollution, dust, and funky water, one stands good chance of either getting a bellyache or a respiratory infection. Many people walk around the city wearing ominous-looking face masks to filter out the pollution and dust. I pull a Buff that I wear around my neck over my nose when I’m walking down a dirty, dusty street. I don’t want to throw too much shade on Kathmandu. The people are friendly and playful. The city is full of ancient temples and gardens. Tourists swarm to these landmarks even though they charge you a small fee to enter. In many cases it is entirely worth it to check these places out for their religious and historical significance as well as for the fact that they provide a respite from the noise and chaos of the city.

On Monday, October 1st we got 4AM a wakeup call to catch plane to Lukla. The tiny airstrip in Lukla is tough for even the most experiences pilots. It is often called the “most dangerous airport in the world.”  At the drop of a hat, flights can be delayed because of poor visibility. Jane from Sheffield, England confesses to premedication with Valium and talked non- stop showing pictures of her dog on Facebook. The Tribhuvan airport waiting room is bustling with people of all ages, nationalities, and body types.

Lukla is too foggy and so we fly to an airport 7 miles away from there and wait in a field by the runway for a many hours. We’re at 8000ft and the air is cool and clean: a welcome relief from Kathmandu. Everyone stands around like it’s a cocktail party. It was named Phaulu Karanga. But after experiencing long delays we rechristened the place as “Phukal” airport (not a real Nepali name). Every 10 minutes or so our guide Pasang Sherpa gave us an update. We were waiting to get a helicopter to Lukla since it was too foggy to land a plane there. Since there was 14 of us, we needed three helicopters. The group was divided in terms of collective weight. The first group, of which I was not included, took off about six hours after we had landed in Phukal airport. The second group departed roughly an hour later leaving just me and three women in their 30s from North London. We waited in the blistering sun while sitting on 50-gallon barrels filled with helicopter fuel. The airport had no real waiting room, concessions or convenient restrooms. We sat all day: baking in the sun talking, laughing, and wishing we had actual chairs to sit in. The fair-skinned among us suffered from the first sunburn of many throughout the trip. Those who forgot to reapply sunscreen in the afternoon were condemned to the fires of Phukal.

The sun began to slowly set and there were about 75 people still waiting (with diminished hopes) that a helicopter would come around the bend to rescue them. Things got quiet. A group from Austrailia started doing yoga in the middle of the runway. No one even tried to stop them. The third helicopter never came and the three women from North London drooped their shoulders and shuffled along with me and Pasang up the hill to spend the night at a very primitive lodging facility. We ordered boiled potatoes with cheese, thinking it was the tamest thing on the menu. Within minutes we confirmed that it was the most disgusting meal we’d ever consumed.

It looked like we had displaced the children of the house for the night. The beds we slept on had comforters emblazoned with little cartoon characters. The one bathroom for the entire floor was flooded in about two inches of water. I couldn’t bear to think what it was that we were wading in. The smell of urine was overwhelming.

Despite our misfortunes, we hit it off well. The North London trio had a quick sense of humor and an invincible dedication to having fun. They referred to our dilemma “helegate”. We became thick as thieves. Adversity makes people closer. The next morning, Pasang frantically knocked on our doors at 6 AM insisting that we mobilize immediately and run down to the airport where we would be taking the first helicopter of the day to Lukla so that we could finally begin our trek. Dutifully we rushed down to the airfield, with one of the north London women actually brushing her teeth as she ran down the street. Breathlessly we arrived at the airfield only to find that we were not going to be on the first flight to Lukla and were free take an hour for breakfast. It was revealed over breakfast, that all three of the women had gone to a Catholic school together and had been close friends for the past 20 years. I asked them if they had ever heard the song “Catholic School Girls Rule “ by the Red Hot Chile Peppers. They hadn’t. From that point on I referred to them as the Catholic School Girls. They didn’t seem to mind. In fact, a few days later, I wrote a catchy tune for them. Pretty soon everyone called them the Catholic School Girls (CSG). They had nothing to be ashamed of I told them: My wife had been a Catholic school girl too.

It was 8 o’clock in the morning. The CSG and I were beginning to think that we would be led down the garden path again as we had been the day before; and that we would be stuck forever at Phukal airport.

I took a stroll to the far end of town. Pasang came running up to me breathless: He had been looking all over for me! Our helicopter was due to arrive within a half an hour. He ran off down the street again towards the airfield. I took my time; it was really only about a five-minute walk. I was at the top of a long staircase that lead down to the airfield when I could hear Pasang shout frantically out to me “Richard !!!!!!“. I gave a friendly wave. There was no helicopter in the air or on the ground. This meant that I had at least another half an hour to walk about 200 yards. Pasang was beside himself with worry. Miraculously, about 20 minutes later a helicopter came around the bend like the cavalry. Pasang told us this was Our Helicopter. We jumped up and down with laughter and joy. We would be released from the clutches of this refugee camp/airport. Helegate was over!

The CSG and I were giddy with excitement as we climbed inside the chopper. The engine whirred and the propellers reached a frenzy of deafening noise as we lifted up into the air. We rose rapidly above the jagged contours of the Himalaya, expertly navigating the high narrow passes until we reached the impossibly short runway at Lukla Airport. Thankfully, we arrived by helicopter and avoided the death-defying challenge having to land an airplane on an aircraft carrier length runway that is considerably higher at the far end. Did I mention that Lukla is commonly referred to as “the most dangerous airport in the world.”

At Lukla we could put the unpredictability of air travel behind us and set about walking which was, after all, the purpose of our visit.
The first 5k was downhill and right away we noticed people who were just finishing their trek to EBC making their weary way up the last long hill to Lukla. They looked pretty beat up. I would say 85% of them looked knackered and pissed off. Obviously, there would be a change in mood as soon as they entered the arched gateway into the town of Lukla that marked the successful end of the journey.

It gave me pause.
Is this trek going to be so long and arduous that I won’t have any fun? I began to worry. The walk itself is only 39 km each way. This is a little bit over 24 miles. But it is 24 miles uphill at high elevation. That means as you go along there is less, and less oxygen and it gets colder and colder. Walking just a mile or two can take hours if you’re going uphill. The path itself is ancient and dates back centuries to when it was a vibrant trade route between Tibet and a Nepal. A lot of the path is built up with stone stairs. The stairs are steep and made from irregular rocks. This makes them treacherous to navigate downward without falling down and breaking your neck. Going up is slow. One foot in front of another using baby steps. In many high altitude regions, the local people have a word for the slow pace you should take when ascending a slope. In South America the word is despacio. In Africa they say Pole Pole when you climb Kilimanjaro. In Kashmir the term is Coolee Coolee. The Nepali phrase is Bistarai Bistarai. I had a t-shirt made in Khatmandu with just the word Bistarai on the front in large letters. Most high-altitude guides will require you to ascend at a pace that seems almost comically slow. They do so to avoid: vomiting, shortness of breath, extreme headache, and, in the worst case, edema. Going too quickly makes you tired, irritable and prone to making bad decisions.

The first night we spent in a little town called Monjo. The tea house/hotel had no heating and the temperature in my bedroom was probably 40 F that night. I had two blankets to cover myself and stayed pretty warm until I had got up to pee. The digs in general were 100% better than we had encountered at Phukal airport. There was edible food, a bathroom that didn’t cause you to vomit. The CSG and I were reveling in the comparative luxury of our new location. One of the guides had agreed to carry my violin but he had gone ahead with the other part of the group in one of the earlier helicopters. This left me to use whatever I could. That night we composed the first draft of our sing-

along composition “Catholic School Girls “. The first rendition was performed and composed on a broken, plastic ukulele that despite its deficiencies was good enough for rehearsal purposes.
By the next morning we were eager to re-join our fellow trackers in Namche Bazar. What lay between us was a good five hours of steady uphill trekking to a final altitude of 11,286 ft. I went at a bistarai, bistarai pace and the CSG followed along. We navigated up the steep inclines and over wobbly suspension bridges. There were scores of wobbly suspension bridges that crossed over deep gorges. The bridges felt strong and reliable to me. They supported hundreds of trekkers, porters, and yaks every day. The CSG and I shared cheerful banter and they treated me to their renditions of Beyoncé songs. We reached Namche at noon. This was just in time for us to meet up with the rest of the group who were having lunch at the tea house where we were staying. The group met us with uproarious cheering as well as hugs and kisses. We were all reunited, and the party was in full swing.

It was a lively group that consisted of:

• Two middle-aged Canadian brothers (Serge, and Remy) from Saskatchewan and their 80-

year-old father (Phillipe) who was a man of clever wit and iron determination.

• A dark-eyed, olive-skinned, thirtyish, Kiwi woman, presently living and working as a Pilates

instructor in Kuwait. Nicole had an irresistible warmth and cheerfulness that helped all of us

make it through the adventure.

• A woman, Named Dee, in her early 20s from Ireland who was fabulously foul-mouth in the

way that is so beautiful in Irish women.

• A middle-aged woman, former flight attendant, from Yorkshire (Sheffield) England. Jane had meticulously done makeup and hair. We all enjoyed her bawdy sense of humor and irresistible Yorkshire accent.
• Also from Yorkshire, (Hull) was a 47-year-old man who lived in Singapore with his Japanese wife and small daughter. His voice was reedy and strident. James loved to entertain us with his singing, free-style rapping, and over-the top wit.
• A quiet woman (Elsa) in her twenties from Finland who lost her shit after she sat on her iphone.
• Martin: young financial adviser from Melbourne, Australia and a handsome devil.
• Phillip a beer-loving Volkswagen engineer from Berlin.
  I played music for folks in the dining room at dinnertime. Sometimes I strummed the violin like a ukulele and spontaneously composed three or four sing-a-long songs for the group. One of them was an ode to Catholic School Girls. Another was about the Himalayan mountain gods and goddesses who would “fuck you up“ if you did not observe the rituals and customs of the Buddhist faith. For this number, I was able to get the group to sing in a brilliant call-and-response that brought us all to tears of laughter.
  The small city of Namche Bazar is a combination of many worlds. It is not accessible by motor vehicle. Everything gets there on the back of a human porter, a pack animal, or in a helicopter. The first thing you see when you walk into town are large groups of people doing their laundry in the river the way their ancestors would have done it 1000 years ago. There are temples, prayer wheels, and Bhuddist statuary everywhere. One had to be always careful to navigate the statuary in a clockwise direction so as not to create bad karma. Juxtaposed with the ancient Sherpa culture is the booming new business community of restaurants, hotels, and gear shops that cater to the wealthy trekkers

from all over the world who stop by here on the way to Everest Base Camp. The dirt streets are overflowing with healthy, wealthy, westerners (and Easterners) in expensive outdoor gear casually strolling, acclimatizing, enjoying chocolate carrot cake, pizza, fancy booze, and Yak dung all served up together in a strange festival of multiculturalism.

Since we were a day behind the rest of the group, we did not reap the benefits of an acclimatization day or any rest that may have come with it. We were however, required to take an acclimatization hike in the afternoon. Even though we were all still knackered from the mornings trek. The afternoon hike took us up to a monastery and a large statue of Tenzing Norgay, the Sherpa climber who was the first to summit Everest along with Sir Edmund Hillary. Tenzing and Hillary have become like Gods in this region. Not only were they the first to conquer Everest, but they used their new-found fame to raise money from international sponsors to build infrastructure, schools, and hospitals in the Khumbu Valley region: home to Everest as well as Tenzing Norgay’s Sherpa culture.

Now reunited, the group begin to develop a dynamic and character. We were awash with wild personalities. The two who had come in separate packages from Yorkshire: James and Jane were the loudest and liveliest of the group. Their voices were always the most audible. I called them the yammering Yorkies. Thankfully they were both entertaining to be in the company of. Jane was willing to tell you everything that was going through her mind at any given time. Most of it was interesting and humorous; some of it fell short of that. By the end of the trip it was impossible not to have affection for all of the members of our party regardless of what their personality flaws or strengths may have been. James was currently employed as a teacher in Singapore where he lived with his Japanese wife and daughter, had an English horn of a voice that was hilarious when he sang his inexhaustible repertoire of pop songs and astonishing when he freestyle rapped. James and Jane

were almost always engaged in playful volleys of verbiage. The CSG and I had become tightly-knit quartet after the trauma of our time at Phukal airport bound us together permanently. No doubt there were some who thought I was a dirty old man. That may be true, but the CSG were more like my daughters than anything untoward.

From Namche we continued up the path to Temboche. At this point the trail opens up into vast, sweeping Himalayan views. Progress was slowed by the fact that we had stop every 100 yards, take pictures, and gasp with astonishment. Although it is not nearly the highest mountain in this range, Ama Dablam is ,without a doubt, the most splendid. It’s Mutt and Jeff spires poke into the sky like a double Matterhorn. Its slopes are caked with freshly powdered snow. Climbing it (no goal of mine) would require rope, ice axes and the kinds of things that a man my age doesn’t mess with. We were also treated to towering views of Lhotse, Nuptse, and the other mountains that form the Everest massif. The great heights of the mountains were set off by the depth of the Khumbu Valley below. From the long view you could see the change in elevation from the base of the valley to the summit of the mountains which must’ve been at least 15 or 20,000 feet.

Past the city of Dingboche, the terrain becomes barren like a desert. There is no more oxygen emitting green vegetation of any kind. The slow recession of the Khumbu glacier left a rugged, rocky topography in its wake. You struggle to keep an even balance as the trail is often covered in talus. The wind is free to blow as it wishes. In the late afternoon it picks up and cuts through all manner of spiffy hiking attire. The sun is bright. The usual protective layers of atmosphere at lower altitude are not present, and unencumbered UV rays are free to have their way with your skin. The air is dry; the wind is cutting; and the sun is merciless. My nose first peeled and then bled, making me look like I just wrestled with a snow leopard. The grandeur of the terrain matches and sometimes exceeds other landscapes (the Alps, Pyrenees, Andes, Sierra Nevadas) formed by the collision of tectonic plates. You can see for hundreds of miles if the weather is clear. The disruption of geography made possible by the collision between the Indian Plate and Eurasian Plate is abundantly there for all to see.
The rugged path through the Khumbu Valley, plus increasing altitude caused Phillipe, our 80-year- old trekker friend, to stop at Gorak Shep just 5 km short of Everest base camp. This may have felt like a failure to him, but it was considerable victory for man his age. In fact, it would be an impressive accomplishment for someone in their 20s.
There’s a Long Ridge that you hike along right before you reach Everest base camp. From there you can look down and see the tiny figures of people gathering in a crowd to celebrate the terminal point of their journey. Despite its grandiose surroundings and storied history: base camp itself isn’t much more than a flat rocky area where people put up tents sometimes. When we got there we all hugged and congratulated each other for having made it all the way. Most people were focused on taking photographs of themselves or their groups in front of the little sign and collection of prayer flags that marked Mark Everest base camp. It seemed more like a social media event then the end of the quest. The greatest concern with the largest number of people seem to be photographic record and broadcast of the moment. I stepped aside and looked down upon the great Khumbu ice fall where there are massive chunks of ice that shift at the whims of the glacier. Every spring a hot shot group of Sherpas called the “ice doctors”, with the blessing of the mountain goddess Chomolungma, install a treacherous system of ladders and ropes that aid those seeking to summit Everest during the months of April and May. Many of the “ice doctors” have themselves summited Everest 10 to 20 times. I look down at the Icefall in wonder and appreciation of those super elite Sherpas. After a brief celebration and photo session at base camp we all went back to our frozen lodgings at Gorak Shep.

Nine days into our journey, our group had turned into a tight little choir. We had honed a repertoire of spontaineous sing-alongs. Perhaps our most successful one was about going slowly.
When you’re walking up the hill you go
slowly slowly slowly slowly

Even if you take some pills you go
slowly slowly slowly slowly.
The tune itself was a kind of earworm and stuck in everybody’s head. I suppose I’m to blame for that. I would also play some Irish and Gypsy music on my violin for the crowds in the dining room at night gathered around the yak dung stove.
We commenced the four-day trek back to Lukla and stopped for three hours during the second day of our dissent in Namche Bazar. Released from constraints of high altitude, two of the expeditions thirstiest members went on a Nepali booze bender in Namche that continued to the end of the journey. We had gone 10 days without drinking any alcohol in as much is alcohol can seriously exacerbate the effects of altitude. 10 days without booze creates a pent-up desire in many folks. It was time to celebrate. These two guys James from Singapore and Phillip from Berlin quickly stacked up their empty cans of Everest beer. By the time they were through drinking at our three-hour stopover they had drank seven cans of beer each. There were many attempts to stack the cans vertically so that they reached the ceiling of the restaurant. It took at least 12 tries before one of the Catholic school girls did it successfully. As we were making our way down, there were legions of people coming up the trail. There had been several days when airplanes were unable to land at Lukla airport due to fog and the poor percentages of a ridiculously short runway. The dam had burst and here were dramatically increased numbers of delayed expeditions that were coming in the opposite direction. We would sometimes offer words of encouragement to them. I would slap fives with anyone who looked over 60 years old and encourage them to carry-on until they have reached their goal.
Our two drunken friends were just ahead of us and singing ghetto rap songs at the tops of their voices with special emphasis on the barrage of obscenies that those songs are known for. I was pissing my pants watching those struggling up the hill pass our drunken companions curiously staring in wonder. On down the hill they went with the recitations of Tupac, Biggie, Dr. Dre, and Ice T. By the time we reached our destination that night in Monjo, James and Philip were psychotically drunk. They engaged in things that I will not embarrass them to recall at this time. The final day of the trek was upon us it seemed impossible that we had just spent 13 days trekking to Everest base camp and back but indeed we had. There was another celebration for us all when we crossed the archway into the town of Lukla where we would spend our last night before hopefully catching a plane in the morning.

In the back of my mind, there is always the fear that we would reach Lukla and be stuck there for days waiting for the weather to clear enough for the planes to take off. If this happened, it would create a domino effect and disrupt my travel plans for the next several days. I would have to reschedule my flight back to New York which would probably cost a lot of money. My wife and I were celebrating our 38th anniversary on 18 October and if I were stuck in Lukla I would miss our anniversary. Thankfully we made it onto the second airplane out of Lukla the next morning and had just one day left in Kathmandu to cause some trouble.