A past adventure

I have been recollecting a tramp* I did with Alana in the foothills of the Himalayas in Nepal today, while I'm snug inside watching a few random snowflakes announce the cold/dreariness of these outdoors.  It was a memorable adventure with rhododendron scattered paths, views of the mountains to die for, bottled coke at many a tea house, and the company of a great friend.  

We'd chosen to go it alone from the start but found we needed help a day or two in and hired porters as we found them to carry our things for us.  Our first porter was a true Sherpa.  We met his family in one small village where the children asked us for pens and candy.  He wore jandals* and was a lot faster than the two of us, even with both our packs on his back.  While we struggled with the terrors of extreme tramping including potential hypothermia and actual swollen ankles and blisters, trudging through a bitter snowstorm; this porter was as sturdy as a mountain goat, always metres ahead of the two of us, in short pants and those jandals.  

He headed home to his family that night and the next day we found a new porter.  We also met his family at each of the many tea houses we went through.  Unfortunately for us, the visits were an excuse for him to drink rice vodka and by the end of the day he was a wobbly mountain goat and argumentative over the payment we offered him.  

It's the day after that that I'm particularly thinking about today.  Wary of hiring a new porter we were alone again, carrying our own packs.  We'd regained our strength and were feeling strong enough to conquer a mountain.    From the line on the map, I was sure we should find ourselves walking on a ridge.  Hoping for magnificent views on either side of our imagined ridge walk, I was disappointed to find that our path never came across this ridge, so decided to risk it and take a side track uphill to find the ridge.  All we found was an abandoned Maoist army training camp.  Feeling spooked by ghosts, we turned back to our original track, now 3 hours behind schedule.  

It had been a pretty great day up to this point.  We'd slept well and were very cheerful to be porter-less once again.  During our lunch break we'd laid in a sunny paddock of wild flowers with our food and books.  I think there was even a little stream running through it that we could wash our sore feet in.  We'd also had gorgeous views of mountain peaks, though they were behind us now.   But now we were tired and hours from the next tea house and dorm.  So we sat on the path and pulled out the treats we'd saved this far to try and booster some energy.  We pooled our resources and found we had a muesli bar, a few handfuls of scroggin*, some dry crackers, and the little packets of NZ butter we'd scavenged on the plane ride over from Bangladesh.  And what a feast it was.  As a child, butter on crackers seemed like the most revolting thing I could be offered.  But high up here here in the absence of shops and western food, it was the feast of a queen. 

*

tramp = hike or trek

jandals = flipflops/sandals

scroggin = trail mix