[at-l] A year ago today...

...it wasn't Thanksgiving yet, date-wise. But this is how we spent the day:

The Day of Ten Thousand Steps

Thus it was that a swirl of chattering sparrows proved to be our alarm clock 
this morning, to rouse us from sleep to climb yet another mountain. The ridge 
towers over the eastern shore of Fewa Pal, and yet it has no special name, a 
mere foothill to the grand Annapurna range. "At Sarangkot," they say, "you 
must see the Himalayan sunrise." 

The clouds did not deter us, nor did the hour, for sunrise in these mountains 
is a slow process, light seeping into the sky over many hours-just as sunset 
behind Fewa Pal slowly bleeds the day into black. It's 7 AM, and Lakeside 
bustles with activity-all locals, no tourists. To atone for awakening late, 
we skip a two-hour roadwalk by taking a half-hour taxi ride to the Bishni 
Banu Temple, at the foot of the track to Saranngkot. From the temple 
courtyard, we gaze upon the snowcaps, just now catching the first morning's 
light. An awesome sight. 

To the mountain! At 1700 meters, the village hides well out of our sight. 
It's a rough path, gully-washed by rain, full of small trip-you-up stones. 
Many prefer to walk the paved road instead, brave the mad bus and taxi 
drivers.

We acquire two college-age boys, who point out directions to us. Then, after 
leading us around the front of the mountain, offer their services as guides. 
I shrug - Sal seems to prefer the help - so off we go. With such plunging 
terrain it's difficult to tell if the trail they lead us on is a shortcut or 
not, but at least it steadily rises, and we again meet the road. Sal overpays 
them generously and we continue on our own, ever climbing, up stairs and 
rocks and dusty channels, every twist and turn revealing yet another 
breathtaking panorama of the sacred mountains. On one stretch of roadwalk, a 
volksmarch of Germans overtakes us as we stop to savor the view. Children 
yell "Hello!" from stoops; the more brash of them add "One rupee? Sweets?"

Eventually we reach where the buses park, and once again face the tourist 
gauntlet of shops, cold drinks, vendors with wares spread on cloths. "Hello, 
my friend!" "Hello, sister!" We smile and nod. One sale would make their day, 
and yet-we can't buy something from everyone! 

The trail turns into a stone stairway to heaven. We watch as a young girl 
carries a heavily laden basket up the mountain; she softens the effect of her 
frontal assault on the terrain by walking in tiny switchbacks back and forth 
across the stairs. We try the same, and find our hearts stop pounding. Nepali 
wisdom!

After four hours of uphill hiking, we reach our destination. Sarangkot isn't 
so much of a village - several houses, a few restaurants and lodges, a mass 
of vendors - as it is a tourist stop. We sit and sip tea as we watch the 
climbers descend down village trails, down the front side of the mountain, to 
Fewa Pal. All seem to share confusion as to the correct downward turn, but 
all seem to make the same choice. And thus, so do we.

Eating lunch in the shade of an outcrop far below the village, we watch boats 
slip by on Fewa Pal. Mist makes magic-the reflection of the far mountain an 
impressionist painting in hues of blue, much like the late evening fading of 
rolling ridges to the south.

And then it's down. No longer a single dirt track, but carved stone steps 
fitted tightly together, smooth from centuries of feet. Down and down, step 
by step. Past the woman plucking fruits from a vine. Past the girl tending a 
fire in the tandoori oven that is an outdoor extension of her terra-cotta 
home. Past the tiny goats, and the sow leading her sucklings in search of 
feed. Past the tea house, the girl who points us down the right stair, the 
stone stiles over livestock fences. Ever down. Past the struggling German 
matron whose local guides led her UP this punishing route, damn them! Past a 
confusion of painted arrows, in all directions, so we choose our own 
route-down.  Along the precipitous edge of a cliff, past swaying banana palms 
and monstrous poinsettia bushes. Through another small cluster of tiny clay 
homes and thatched huts. Around a bodhi tree. Past "Last change soft drink 
stop here!" 

Always steps, always down. Over a bamboo stile, descent into jungle, where a 
waterfall plunged out of sight but within earshot, where parrots caroused in 
the trees. Down. Where the hiss and sputter in the background - could it be a 
tiger? A wild boar? - kept us wary until we discovered the black hose 
draining the waterfall, half-buried in dirt, punctured in several places. 
Step by step, my right knee now quaking like jelly. We emerge from the jungle 
into cultivated land, and the path turns into a streambed-and stays there. 
Through a calm pool fed by a subterranean springs. Past the threshing floor, 
busy with boys and men whacking rice stalks against a clay platform. Past a 
mother who coaches her small child to yell "Hello, sweets?" as we approach. 
Past the old men squatting in front of their clay and thatch soft drink 
stand. Still down, into the rice paddies, where water buffalo roam free and 
the trail plays balance beam along the edges of the paddies. And down.

Finally, joyfully, to the lakeside road. We look up. We can't even see our 
starting point, so far above, hidden by topography. My knee stops quaking. 
Two hours of straight down. Ten thousand steps.

"Steps? Steps? That's trekking in Nepal, mate!" said the Aussie lady in the 
room next door. 
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