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.

Old Geezer on the John Muir Trail

                                           

In the spring of 2012, I read Cheryl Strayed’s book Wild: a memoir of her 3-month hiking journey on the Pacific Crest Trail. Many people have hiked the PCT, but few of them have described the experience in such an intimate and compelling way. She successfully juxtaposed the challenges and obstacles of her personal life with those encountered on the long dusty trail. My first thought was to get out there before the mobs of people who learn about this story from Oprah’s Book Club to lace up their boots.

There is a mountain out there waiting for all of us. To be alive is to struggle. Sooner or later everybody has to walk uphill: fight the powers that be and overcome the obstacles. In the high Sierra, you zigzag up steep switchbacks over loose gravel and talus at altitudes of 10, 12 or even 14,000 feet. The blazing, unobstructed California, summer sun will dry the throat and cloud the mind.

The air is thin: containing sometimes as little as 50% of the oxygen available at sea level. So much of success depends on pacing: the steady rhythm of steps, breathing, and hiking poles scraping the arid earth. Too fast, and you fall short of breath; and your heart will pound. Step, breath, step, breath. Slowly, calmly, deliberately winding your way to the top of the pass. The magnitude of the goal will make it seem utterly impossible. Pay it no mind. Bear down and proceed. Put one foot in front of another. No bravado necessary, only persistence. The first step requires the most effort.

For me the first step was boarding a jet from Newark, New Jersey to Reno. I felt downright daft, sitting at a bus stop with a 40-pound backpack, waiting for a bus to carry me from the Reno airport south through the sizzling Owens Valley to the desert town of Lone Pine, CA. It was July and, and unlike 22-year-old Cheryl Strayed, I was 57 years old. I had six weeks and wanted to follow the Pacific Crest/John Muir trail from Mt. Whitney to Yosemite and possibly beyond.

57 years old and alone, I knew that normal people don’t do this kind of stuff. I felt self-conscious of my nuttiness when I stopped by the post office in Lone Pine to pick up my first supply box. The woman at the counter was non-plussed. She had seen my kind and worse over the years, and cheerfully passed the over-sized parcel to me.

I had climbed Mt. Whitney a few years before and I already knew what the arduous journey would be like on the first day. After 11 miles of walking uphill with the big bag, capped off by 99 high-altitude switchbacks, the hike reached its highest point at Trailcrest (13,645).  

Looking west, 2000 feet below Trailcrest, lies a lake shaped like a guitar. Not surprisingly, it’s called Guitar Lake. I descended from just south of the Whitney Summit, to make my first nights camp at Guitar Lake. A steady 15 mph wind blew across the lake from the west and brought a welcome chill to the late afternoon air. My knees were still waffling from the long dissent. I gingerly set up my tent near an unoccupied one which was shielded from the wind by a large boulder. I went about my business eating dehydrated trail food (hunger is the best sauce) and enjoying the early evening alpenglow. I never saw signs of the neighbor in the tent by the rock. I settled into my sleeping bag after the sun went down and dozed off. An hour later I was startled awake by the sound of footsteps crunching in the gravel next to my tent: one set of rapid steps and then another. I lifted the tent flap and saw two more head lamps coming like bats out of hell down the dark trail from the summit. I quickly determined that these people must be fucked in the head to descend from the summit of Whitney in the dark with only headlamps and the bright sierra stars to help them navigate through the steep talus without breaking their necks.

I met these carefree souls the next morning. They were all through-hikers on the Pacific Crest Trail. They had monikers (trail names) like: Apocalypse, Pitfall, Link, and Snacks.

They were young men in their 20s, deeply tanned with mud-caked skin and dusty clothes. They carried with them only the bare necessities of food, shelter, and the worn clothing upon their backs. I liked them immediately and in turn they exhibited a friendly camaraderie. They laughed easily and rolled their own cigarettes. They liked their weed as well. I broke camp and started walking west toward Crabtree Meadow. They bounded ahead of me like long-horned sheep across the plateau and were quickly out of sight.  Since I was 30 years older than all of them, it came as no surprise that their foot speed was superior.

Later that afternoon, I encountered the same foursome under a cool shady tree admiring the broad expenses of the Big Horn Plateau. We, once again, bumped fists and I went off on my way through the alpine wilderness.

The backcountry of the high Sierra is so mysterious, and otherworldly it’s hard to imagine being on the same planet as, say, New Jersey. Life becomes a series of ascents and descents. I walked throughout the day, stopping occasionally to rest, eat a Cliff Bar and take in the splendor. Undistracted by the complexities of adult contemporary life, my mind was galvanized by the power of nature. The rhythm of my steps lulled me into a deep, hypnotic state of singularity.

Five days of alpine nirvana float past and, my food supplies are depleted. I cross over Bishop pass into town.

To get to Bishop from the trailhead I have no choice but to hitchhike, something I hadn't done since I was in my 20s. The driver of the pickup truck that stopped to offer a ride, laughed as I groaned while lifting myself with 40-pound backpack on to the tailgate. He was about my age and understood the orthopedic limitations of the situation. He took me into town enjoying stories of a hapless old man on the trail. Descending from the mountains into the town of Bishop you descend a series of switchbacks. You feel like a feather slowly floating down into the flat basin of the Owens Valley. The temperature increases nearly 20°. 

I spend two nights in a humble, clean hotel run by an ambitious Indian (from India) woman who actually grew up in South Africa. My hands were chapped and cracked from the dry air of the high Sierras. Despite this I was eager to play my violin which I had mailed to myself in a “bounce box” from the town of the Lone Pine to the post office in Bishop. For two days, I rested and prepared for the next segment of the hike. It was the fourth of July weekend and I passed the hours watching several innings of heart-warming, entertaining, amateur softball being played in the searing mid-day heat at the town recreation center. Bishop is a trail town with a half dozen gear shops and decent Mexican food. The world-famous, adventure photographer, Galen Rowell was a longtime resident of Bishop. After his death in 2002, a gallery of his work was opened on the main street in town. I enjoyed the permanent display of his work housed there.

I hired a car to take me back to the trailhead in so far as I felt awkward hitchhiking back out there. That day turned out to be one of the most strenuous of the trip because I had to hike over Bishop pass, nearly 12,000 feet, and then descend nearly 3000 feet into Le

Conte Canyon. The climb up to the pass was slow and deliberate over well-maintained talus, followed by a long, knee-cracking, dusty descent over slippery scree. I was almost always in the company of pack animals and their drivers. Pack animal waste was abundant enough for some people to call it the “John Manure Trail”.  

The air in LeConte Canyon was hot and thick as guacamole due relatively low altitude. Despite the uncomfortable heat, I fell asleep like a bag of wet cement. The next day my legs felt like they were stuck in quicksand and the prospect of climbing out of the canyon and over Muir pass was too much for me to handle. I logged in a measly 4 miles that day, resting for the afternoon in a pleasant campsite. I met a ranger, a woman in her 20s, who stopped by to look at my permit. With impressive strength, she dismantled a fire ring that had been illegally built, as the campsite was above 10,000 feet. The fire ring was made out of large granite rocks that must have weighed at least 30 pounds each. She hurled about ten of them twenty feet into the woods. I asked her if she ever threw shot put.

The next day I made a slow step by breathless step ascent over Muir pass stopping to have my picture taken by the stone hut at the top.

The hut had a curious round shape like a yurt. Inside, there were benches and a non-functioning fireplace that had deer antlers above the mantle. Also, on the mantle, were various handwritten journals and artifacts left by other hikers. The descent from Muir Pass was long and onerous. I stopped to camp at Lake Wanda, named after one of John Muir's daughters. The lake was windswept and lovely with numerous islands and peninsulas surrounded by the mountains (Mount Darwin, Mount Mendel, Mount Fiske, Mount Haeckel, Mount Huxley, Mount Wallace, and Mount Lamarck) of the Evolution group.

Going down 4000 feet over the course of about 14 ten miles, I was quick enough to reach the Muir Trail Ranch at the bottom of the hill in time to pick up a resupply by 5 PM. The ranch is run by a miserly, curmudgeonly, old woman named Pat. She possesses a wit that is as dry as the dust that covers the ground. For the service of holding your resupply bucket she will charge you $55. In fact, she seems to have a fee for just about every little hiker's service she provides. She reminded of the Bob Dylan song “Maggie’s Farm”

She hands a nickel

She hands you a dime

She asks you if you’re having a good time

She’s 66 but she swears she’s 54

If you were craving chocolate, beer or Coca-Cola, forget about it, she doesn't have any. The ranch has a collection of cabins that look like a throwback to the pioneer west. There is a Protestant feeling to the place. One expects to hear a church hymn being sung out of tune by a congregation somewhere on the premises. Wading across the river you will encounter many informal camp sites next to a small group of hot springs. The springs were spare and almost dried up when I visited. This is probably not always the case. The people who I met at the Muir Trail Ranch all seemed restless. One either hikes over the pass to get there, or takes a boat across Florence Lake and then hikes 7 miles to get there. There were people who were begging for soda pop, ice cream, or a motorized vehicle to take them away. I chose to take my backpack, now heavy with new supplies, up four miles and 2000 vertical feet of switchbacks to camp by a stream, halfway up Seldon pass. I fell into my tent at 8:30 PM with gentle rain falling on the tent. Just as the raindrops had lulled me to sleep I heard a woman’s voice outside the tent. Through the fabric of the tent she said that her name was Blue Sky. She asked if she could set up her tent at my site. She seemed pleasant enough, although I couldn't actually see her. It was raining and she had as much right to camp there as I did. The helpful thing to do would have been to assist her in setting up her camp. Dry and warm and cozy in my tent, I selfishly stayed put. When the rain had let up, I got out of my tent and went to greet her. She was 50-ish with dyed brown hair and vibrant blue eyes. Hence her trail name. We savored dehydrated dinners together and shared trail stories. I was happy for the company even in the mosquito infested drizzle. She had hiked the entire Appalachian trail the summer before and seemed a lot more trail tough than me. The steady, light, rain did not dissuade her from hunkering down and enjoying a leisurely meal. She was divorced with 2 grown kids. Like a lot of folks I met on the trail, she seemed to be escaping from a life that she wanted to forget. I sat with her for a while until the rain drove me back into my tent. Many nights on the trail I ended up someplace where people congregated with their tents seeking the comfort and safety of having other humans around.

The next day began with a long ascent over yet another pass. Just one mile down the other side, I was already tired enough to set up camp for the night. I just ran out of mojo and had to rest. After 12 hours of sleep, I hiked 15 miles downhill to the shores of Edison Lake where I caught the ferry to Vermillion Valley resort. The boat ride across the lake was beautiful in the late afternoon sunlight. My fellow passengers were all hikers laden with heavy backpacks such as my own. The water level of the lake was disturbingly low, and the boat had to land nearly a half a mile from the resort. This forced us withering travelers to trudge across a half a mile of low-traction beach sand. When we arrived at the main building, the resort owner informed us that there were no available lodging facilities except for a small backpacker area where we could set up our tents and camp for no charge. All of us did just that. Unlike the Muir Trail ranch, the resort had plenty of beer and abundant quantities of junk food. The beer and food were served by a wonderfully snarky waitress named Olive. She dished out wholesome food along with stinging sarcasm at no extra charge. We were all entertained by her frank, irreverent commentary and I for one enjoyed dishing it right back.

It was a young crowd at the bar. Olive loudly proclaimed that she absolutely loathed people in their twenties. They adjourned to a large campfire at about 9PM and partied into the wee hours. I drank one bottle of beer that made me dizzy with delirium and sent me crawling in my sleeping bag at dusk. A trio of recently graduated guys from Santa Clara University in California were in good company with a duo of female hikers who had just finished up at Harvard College. Olive told them that they were spoiled brats. But she didn't mean it.

The resort was a wonderful place for through hikers to bond and to feel the warmth and camaraderie that the PCT and the JMT are well known for.

A small tear fell from the corner my eye when I boarded the ferry to re-embark on my journey. I would miss Olive. During dinner, we exchanged pleasantries:

Olive: Hey New York asshole. What’s your name?

Me: Richard.

Olive: Do people call you Dick?

Me: Not people I like.

Olive: Hey Dick!!

Me: At least have the decency to call Big Dick.

Olive: Why don’t you like being called Dick?

Me: I don’t want to stick out.

The trail between the ferry landing and Silver Pass was steep and insistent. Clouds were beginning to gather, and rain was imminent. I set up my tent at 6 PM in a small meadow by a lazy stream with way too many mosquitoes. I was lucky because the downpour did not occur until I was safe and dry in my small cozy tent.

The next morning, I spent four hours slogging my way up sun baked switchbacks to the top of Silver Pass. Mid way to the top five young hikers passed me. One of the hikers (trail-named Pitfall), immediately recognized me from Guitar Lake and called me by my name. The rest of his crew had earbuds on and were pushing their way quickly to the top of the pass. The last hiker in the procession actually had a boom box that he was loudly listening to on his way up. The guy must have been deaf. I continued at my steady 57-year-old pace and an hour later I was warmly greeted at the top of the pass by the same quintet of hikers. They were passing a joint. We spoke briefly about our first meeting at Guitar Lake and then he introduced me to his entourage. The group consisted of Pitfall, his girlfriend Pinchot, Apocalypse, Stone, and Preppy. They reminded me of the 20-year-old friends that my own children brought around the house to visit. We exchanged another 20 minutes of mirthful conversation until I picked up my backpack and continued down the other side of the pass.

They must have idled away quite a bit of time, smoking roll-your-own cigarettes and passing spiffs. About 6PM that night they glided past my campsite at Tully Hole: this time joined by, guitar-toting, “Tuscan Raider”, and his pretty blonde girlfriend, “Smiles”. Pitfall shouted, " See you in Mammoth. Beer at Base Camp!!" The next day I walked 16 miles to Red's Meadow slowly circumnavigating the copious blow-down on the trail. The campground was shabby and depressing but I spent a perfunctory night there waiting for the store to open up at 7AM so I could pick up my supply box and another box with the violin I had bounced up from Bishop. Nobody in the store believed it was really a violin, so I had to take out of the box and play it. One woman said it reminded her of the Titanic. It seemed like a California thing to say.

Since my visit to Bishop, I hadn't been in the "civilized world" for more than a week. The denizens of this world seemed softer, cleaner, and shallower than I had remembered. I observed them with detached wonder as I boarded the National Park Service shuttle bus that would take me to Mammoth Lakes and the motel room that I had reserved, via IPhone, for the next two nights. With a 40-pound backpack and an awkward box carrying my violin I had to change buses 3 times under the watchful curiosity of many National Park tourists. I was worried that the staff at the Best Western hotel might turn me away in my awkward, unwashed state, but they were actually quite accustomed to PCT hiker types and were cheerful and friendly.

The dirt that was caked on my legs and feet was so ground into the skin that it took two showers over the course of the evening to even get 80% of the lower half of my body clean.

While my trail friends were ether staying at the youth Hostel or squatting in the town park, I was living it up in the Best Western. The room was spacious and quite classy. The shower was fully equipped, and the flat-screen TV was full of the latest ball scores and political posturing. On that account, I had missed little.

What I had missed most was my family and my violin. My mother was undergoing initial treatments for breast cancer and I was anxious to get the latest news. Whenever I go away there is always an ache in my heart for my wife. We had a wonderful, hilarious talk for a half an hour, and I felt so much lighter afterword. The world just seemed like a better place knowing she was there. My appetite took off like a rocket. I wanted to eat the junkiest food I could find. I wanted calories: thousands of them. Tacos, beans, rice, fries, pie, chocolate, muffins, scones, eggs, home fries, Doritos and cafe mocha.

I ran into Pitfall, Tuscan Raider, and Stone just walking around town. It was embarrassing to tell them where I was staying. I gave them my cell # but none of them had phones.

I must have spent five or six hours playing the violin over the next two days. It was like catching up with an old friend.

The hike from Mammoth Lakes to Tuolumne was supposed to be three days in duration however it ended up being 2 1/2. I could have done it in two days easily, but I was so enraptured with the Thousand Lakes area that I took my time. The entire Yosemite area was overrun with tourists. Most of them seemed more interested in shopping, talking on cell phones, and eating than anything else. An interest in nature seemed secondary to most of them. There are regular shuttle buses that will distribute the otherwise distracted tourists through a gamut of natural wonders presented like paintings in a museum that one breezes through. Lodging and services are not cheap and demand for them is nearly frantic during the peak summer months. I tried to ignore the masses and enjoy the natural beauty of the Valley. I was able to do this for a 24-hour period before I became inpatient with the crowds, prices, and insistent heat. I happily hitchhiked back up to Tuolumne Meadows, insofar as the bus only runs twice per day. I was fortunate enough to make it there fleetingly with the aid of two quick rides. The first ride was with a backcountry ranger who offered a wide range of insights about the park and what it is like to work there. The second ride was with a middle-aged Australian man who had many questions about the United States and its political issues. I was more than happy to expound upon my political beliefs.

Once I was dropped off at the Tuolumne Meadows store, I commenced with my hike North on the PCT. I camped that night at a designated area called Glen Aulin. It had a number of tent cabins that you could rent for the usual exorbitant cost or you could simply walk up the hill and camp for free at a beautiful site overlooking a deep rocky gorge. I chose the latter option and I have no regrets. The tourist element was still quite prevalent, but the numbers were thinning due to the increasing remoteness of the area. The section of the trail from Glen Aulin to Sonora Pass is long and remote. 68 miles and no towns or roads. I had no way of packing enough food. The clouds above were becoming more organized and thunderclaps were rumbling in the distance. At this point is seemed wiser to turn around. And so, I returned to the Tuolumne store where I waited four hours for the bus back to Mammoth Lakes. One of the store employees was playing a guitar seated on a bench in front of the store. I approached him and reassured him that people appreciated his contribution to the scene even if they seemed to be it ignoring him. I told him that I had been a musician my whole life and I knew his position. Since he lived in a tent cabin behind the store, he offered to retrieve a mandolin that he had so that we could jam. We played music for the entertainment of ourselves and curious passersby. In this way, we managed to pass the time pleasantly until I had to catch my bus and he had to go to something he referred to as a “safety meeting” with his coworkers.

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Kilimanjaro

Kilimanjaro 2014

The evening air in Africa is full-bodied, rich, and complex. The humidity gives it body; the rich red earth and thick vegetation give it aroma and richness; and scent of living beings gives it complexity. My first drowsy late-night memories of Tanzania are hazy. In the Dar es Salaam airport, once you have passed through customs, you walk past the barrier where there are the universal limo drivers waving their usual signs with client names on them. You are not in a glassy, high-ceilinged greeting area. You are in the open sultry air of the African night. A taxi driver wearing a clean white shirt, with, a necktie and an official looking ID badge, quickly approached me. For about $7 he took me to the Transit Hotel that was literally right across the street from the terminal. He honked his horn when we reached the gate so that the security guard could buzz us into the front yard of the Hotel. This must have been a precaution against the rough customers who patronized the sin spots and gin joints in the surrounding neighborhood.  

The room was stale and hot: the air-conditioning hadn’t been turned on in days. Even though I had taken malaria, the presence of a mosquito net suspended over the bed was disconcerting. I cranked up the AC, such as it was, and slept poorly thinking about all the unfamiliar bacteria crawling over every surface.

There was another $7 car ride across the street in the morning to catch a flight to Kilimanjaro International Airport in the city of Arusha at the foot of the mountain. From there I caught another overpriced cab ride to Moshi where the rest of the expedition members would slowly gather in anticipation of our impending trek up the mountain. Nobody became acquainted until we had a meeting with our guides at 6PM on the night before the expedition.

We introduced ourselves: there were two people in their early twenties from Vancouver Canada, an elementary school principal from Edmonton Alberta, a couple in matching t-shirts from Melbourne, Australia, A mercurial hiker from Vienna, Austria, A nice couple in their early thirties from Philadelphia, and me. Our guides were all in their 20s and 30s hailing from the immediate area.

The plan was to meet for breakfast at 7:30 and depart on the bus at 8:00. I dutifully set the alarm on my wristwatch for 7AM. At 8:10 I was startled from my sleep by desperate pounding on the door. The wristwatch alarm was too weak to wake me from my jet lag induced sleep. The guides were all in my room frantically helping me get my gear packed while everyone else was sitting on the bus patiently waiting. They were all staring at me as I boarded the bus to take my seat. I was super embarrassed. Despite the tardiness, everyone seemed friendly enough. People asked about whether or not I’d had any breakfast. They all offered food. I sat down in a seat next a woman named “Lucky”. I felt better immediately.

We drove around for a few hours, ferrying from one office to another picking up and dropping off paperwork. Finally, we arrived our starting point: Rongai Gate. At this location there were perhaps 75 potential porters waiting around for work. We were required by park regulations to hire a porter for every 20 kilos of weight. After everything was weighed (trekking gear, tents, food, kitchen utilities, etc.) we were required to hire 27 porters. A man named Manrai was assigned to be my porter. He would carry my bag and set up my tent for the duration of the tour.

Every day at about 9AM we would start out trekking while the porters broke camp. Within an hour they would come charging by us at twice our own speed so that they could arrive the next camp in sufficient time to have everything set up for us when came trudging in later in the day. They were overtly cheerful and always offered a friendly "Jambo" as they passed. On the second day they had sufficient time to set up camp and then welcome us with a musical performance that included three well-rehearsed songs and some low-down, hip-shaking, dirty dancing that some of the female trekkers happily participated in. The second day had been a slog up about 2000 meters that required eight hours of walking. Most of us were too tired to dance but we all felt energized by the music and goodwill.

Bowls of hot water were bought to our tents for the washing of face, hands, and perhaps one other body part per day. After washing we would go to the mess tent where all ten trekkers and the guides would dine together. Dinner table discussion gravitated toward raunchiness. By the end of the trek we were all freely exchanging words and ideas that most people would not repeat in front of their grandma. Dinnertime was jolly for most of us excepting those who were feeling the effects of altitude. Each night we slept at a higher altitude. The first night was at 8000 ft., the 2nd night 11000 ft., the 3rd night 13000 ft., and on the fourth night we slept at nearly 16000ft. Sadly, we are not all created equal when it comes to altitude. Each night after dinner we were given an overview of the next day’s adventure and then one of the guides would come around to each of us with a device that was supposed to measure our blood oxygen by clipping onto your forefinger and reading out a number that had to be somewhere between 70 and 100 in order to carry on.  By the fourth night some people were raring to make a summit bid while others were just barely able to get a few mouthfuls of food down their throats.

We began our trek for the summit at 11pm. The ascent is made possible by a long series of switchbacks that zig-zag upward. The first five hours of the walking take you up a slope the same pitch as a chalet roof. You can see the headlamps of all the other groups glowing in rows. It looks like an ancient ritual: tribes ascending to the rim of a volcano for a human sacrifice at dawn.

The combination of altitude, and steepness make this a place where many people either start doubling over with the dry heaves, or just plain run out of gas. At this point two members of our expedition were doubled over, and one had decided to go back down because he simply could not go up any longer. A woman from Australia fainted right in front of me. Her knees buckled, and her husband had to catch her in his arms so that she would not go tumbling down the mountain.

A science professor from Pennsylvania started staggering from light-headedness and fell down in front of me. After that I kept a constant vigil upon him. There was a woman that I had to step over who was so distressed that she lay curled up in the path screaming at the top of her lungs. She must have had plenty of oxygen to produce such a sound.

There were five of us left. When we made it to the rim of the mountain at Gillman's point there was no question the we would all go on to Stella point and then the highest point at Uhru.

At Stella Point we met up with all the people who had come up the Lemosho trail. This is a far more populated trail than the Rongai route that we took. It began to feel like 5th Ave. at lunchtime. Every other person seemed to be throwing up or passing out. The general pallor of the Trekkers was an eerie gray. I had to take the last 500 ft at a snail’s pace: Pole, pole, stopping to catch my breath every three or four steps.

The five Trekkers in our group made it to the top and took pictures by the famous sign that reads: Congratulations you are now at Uhuru Peak, Tanzania 5895m. Africa’s highest point. Highest free-standing mountain in the world. UNESCO World Heritage Site.

Who wouldn’t want to pose next to a sign like that? Indeed, there was a ten-minute wait to get your photo taken there. There were 40-50 people at the summit at the same time as us.

It was not a good day to linger at the summit and have a picnic. The winds were bitter, and the dust blew in our faces, making it hard to see. The glaciers were a spectacular sight with their layers of deep blue ice. I had been hoping to look down upon the vast Serengeti plain, but it seemed like we were miles above a layer of clouds covering the earth below. It looked like the view from a jet. The crater of the volcano was shallow but vast with, filled with dirty snow.

The trip back down the mountain took about 1/3rd as much time. The cardiovascular part of the hike was over and now it was all orthopedic. It entailed 4000ft. of steep, sandy, quad-busting descent and by the time we got down we all made haste to our tents for a recovery nap. My favorite part of the descent was running into the Australian woman who had collapsed in the wee hours of the morning. I thought for sure she would turn around. But we met up her a quarter mile past Gillman's Point. She had made it through the worst and was determined to make it all the way to Uhuru. I told her that she was one gutsy woman and wished her good luck. She came stumbling back into camp about three hours behind the rest of us. We cheered her on. She turned out to be the hero of the day.

But there was more.

We had to hike another three hours down to our next camp. Nobody was in the mood, but the hike was all downhill and it went through a wide-open dry expanse between Kilimanjaro and Mawenzi called “the shoulder”. We managed to keep ourselves occupied with the scenery and good conversation, but it was still an awful lot after summiting Kilimanjaro already that day. After about 14 ours of walking we spent the night at Horombo Camp: a major outpost on the Marangu route.

Despite the Promethean effort of the day we still managed to have a jovial time at dinner. By now we had come to know most of the crew by name and enjoyed each other's company. Nearly everyone in the expedition had taken to calling me " Papa" by then. This was no doubt because I was the oldest person on the expedition. It was all good. I felt like Hemmingway.

Although it took us 5 days to make our ascent up the Rongai Route; our descent only took two long days of walking downhill on the Marangu route. The Managu route is also known affectionately as the “Coca-Cola route”, because it is the shortest and most crowed way to get to the top. There were throngs of day hikers in crisp clean clothes along the last few miles of the trail to the park entrance in Marangu. One of them came up to me and asked if I was Hulk Hogan. I liked Hemingway better..

By the end of 7 days of  camping in the dirt with possibility of a shower, I wore my filth like a badge of honor. When we got back to the hotel however, I was happy to turn in the badge. Everyone in the group had been dreaming of a hot shower. It didn't take long before the hotel water heater was overwhelmed.

That last night we all met for dinner around 8:00PM. Everyone was clean and also distracted by the electronic devices they had all brought with them to the table. Everybody had communications to catch up with. Things were sedate. I thought we were about to make an early night it. Suddenly the Kilimanjaro beer came out along with a deck of cards. Someone looked up a card drinking game that had us all doubled over with laughter from the raunchy humor that ensued. We finished up at about midnight and shared tearful, heartfelt hugs all around. We all had one hell of a time.

These group expedition experiences are like a sugar high. Once everyone has said goodbye there is a kind of crash where the exhilaration is over and all that’s left is an empty vacuum. If you don't fill the vacuum in a timely manner a blue period ensues. I tried to thwart off the depression by going to Zanzibar. It's not far from Dar es Salaam in distance but there are many hustlers to be circumnavigated along the way. Everywhere I had gone by myself on the streets in Africa I had been greeted by young men trying to figure out a way to get money out of my wallet. 

The approach was consistent: " hello sir How are you? Are you enjoying your time in Tanzania?" The fellow would follow me down the street like a dog trying to hump my leg: offering all manner of guide services, logistical assistance, artistic wears and great deals at the store of one of their relatives. The number of these " flycatchers" increased to swarms when the cab driver left me off at the ferry terminal. The streets are lined with travel agencies who offer the same services as the flycatchers, except they are licensed, and you have some chance of meeting them again if things don't go right. I allowed myself to be buggered by a travel agent that the cab driver had selected for me. He sold me an overpriced first-class ferry passage and a return plane ticket on a funky local airline. Then I was assigned a porter who railroaded me past all the lines and found me a seat in the premium class section for a $42 fee which he insisted was fair.

All of this made me disappointed in myself for not pre-arranging all these details so as to avoid the swindle.

The ferry took an hour and 45 minutes to make its way over to the island where, low, and behold, there was another swarm of flycatchers waiting just outside the terminal to swindle me for the second time. I only needed to hire a car to get me to the Marishiki Palace Hotel in the heart of Stonetown. The hotel itself was a renovated palace that once belonged to an Iman but now belongs to an Italian woman who looks to be in her fifties and well preserved. The place oozed charm and elegance at a $200 per night rate. The hotel had a rooftop restaurant where I could eat scrumptious seafood from local sources and watch the sunset over the Indian Ocean.

Stonetown is the biggest municipality on the island of Zanzibar. At the center of the city is a spice market surrounded by an impossible maze of ancient narrow streets lined with dry goods peddlers and artisan’s shops. It reminds me of other spoiled and beautiful cities like Havana, Casablanca, or Venice. The architecture is full of old-world detail and has aged like a crumbling but lovely autumn leaf. The weather was hot with enough humidity to make your clothes stick. Islamic influence is everywhere. I visited during the month of Ramadan. Women in black, full length gowns with headscarves sat in weary groups. They languished in the shade of trees by the mosque where they could starve in solidarity with each other during the long hot days. The men stayed inside praying in unison. They prepared themselves to meet Allah by washing face, hands, and feet along the rows of faucets and drains that line the walls on the outside of the mosque. Restaurants were not allowed to serve dinner on the sidewalk until after 6:30 when the sun went down.