Some pictures to add to last week's post...

November 3, 2014: Pilgrims Of Helambu

Here's a story I've been sitting on and almost forgot. It puts a finishing nail on my 2014 Asia-trip. More Antarctica entries to come. All is well in the deep south.



I have seen things that I can't unsee and as a result I am driven by fire. There is no hope for me living a normal life. I am ruined according to some standards, but made whole by a much higher one. These experiences electrify my heart, jump-starting me into motion. I share my stories not only to find release, but because these illuminated memories are part of me and, at times, all I have to offer to those I love.                                                             

Nepal--June 5, 2014

Self discovery and incense hung heavy in the air as I walked along the narrow dirt trail that was forever leading me up. I am a pilgrim among pilgrims. They travel this road by the hundreds muttering mantras and singing soulful songs as they march towards heaven, towards a temple in the clouds. Every year these spiritual people travel from the far corners of Nepal and India to place their offerings in sacred waters and breathe prayers in the cold mountain air. They call this ritual Gangsdashahara. Old and young brave this trail, walking the weary distance in cheap foam flip-flops and carrying their belongings in strapped bags hung across their foreheads. They exert more effort into their religion than most.

Dave, Matt, and I watched them take slow calculated steps covering impressive miles of challenging terrain with out complaint. We felt weak in comparison. We were hyperbolized in durable hiking boots and wonderfully comfortable backpacks. The sky opened up and we felt ashamed as we took refuge under our gortex rain gear. Wearing plastic bags draped over their heads, they kept walking offering greetings "namaste" and polite conversation in broken English. Those who spoke no English smiled broadly--the universal sign of friendliness. This gesture transcended the language barrier and left a warm fondness in our hearts for these people. Together we moved forward and climbed higher, but our quests were of a different nature. They walked for their gods, for their religion. We walked for the gods within us, for the religion of our spirit. Adventure called us. They answered to piety.

We started early in the morning in the lowlands, walking past howling monkeys and exotic plants hung low and heavy by the collection of rainwater. The air was thick with humidity and smelled of atmosphere and stove smoke. Our ascent began immediately. Sweat soaked our t-shirts and the straps on our backpacks as we pushed our bodies up the mountain. Our climb was steady and steep. Long-lost muscles in our legs and backside began to protest loudly. By late afternoon, stiff and sore, we entered a new ecosystem. Rodadendrine bushes exhibiting blooming white flowers grew from rocky, mineral-rich soil, and birds with the sweetest voices trilled resonating songs. The smell of pine and the cool altitude refreshed us. Up and up we walked, past the timberline, until the bird's songs faded into silence and the only thing that stood between us and the heavens was rock and sky. As we climbed higher our lungs became heavy and labored. Oxygen molecules grew thin, our progress slowed, and our breath quickened. We traveled among the clouds, watching their wispy forms rise from the valleys and sail as if draped from the great masts of invisible ships. One moment we felt the sun reddening our face through a hole in the billowing mantle, and the next we were damp and shivering and locked in a dim white-washed world. We remained in the mist.

On the third day we arrived on holy ground. At over 4,300 meters Gosaikunda Lake, the willful objective of the stead-fast pilgrims of Helambu, appeared through the haze. Smiles spread like fire as each weary traveler locked eyes on the site. We celebrated our arrival with the pilgrims as we set up camp, but my spirits were dampened by the thick clouds that followed us. Here I stood on the rooftop of the world and I had not had a glimpse of the legendary mountains I had journeyed to see. Curtains of clouds kept them a mystery. The Himalayas consumed my thoughts.

We rested our tired bodies and drank hot coffee while we surveyed these mountain people's Mecca. According to legend this holy mountain lake was born from the trident of the god Shiva. Out of desperation he struck the earth after being poisoned by a demon. The spring flowed, he drank deeply, and the myth was born. These hindu travelers cover miles of difficult terrain to bathe in its magic waters. 

Chants of devotion and a smoke-like mist hung over the water's still, dark surface. Bodies wearing vermillion robes with paint-smeared faces materialized through the dense roaming clouds. One moment they were there, the next they were gone, but their voices remained--loud and soulful. Incense burned thick and offerings of scarlet cloth and candles floated in the black depths. The light from the candles glowed and created an erie ambience. We watched from afar, silently wondering at the strange beauty of the scene.  

In the waning light of the late afternoon the veil began to lift. Suddenly, unexpectedly the valley became visible from far below and the over-exposed world was restored with nature's blood-life. Earth, trees, and water pulsed with color. Patches of blue and the soft outline of cliffs began to appear, but the clouds still lingered obstinately. They did not want to unveil the castles in the sky. Desperately Dave and I took to our feet and headed towards the ridge that overshadowed our camp. Something deep inside pulled us. Some how we knew that if we gained that ground we would be rewarded. Sparked with hope, we climbed.

                                                                   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Speechless. Awestruck. Shocked into silence. Descriptive words crawl up my throat and towards my larynx searching for release, only to be swallowed-up--incapable of expression. These words are digested; churned and then absorbed into the neglected corners of my heart and the deep crevices of my consciousness. A hearty meal of inexpressible beauty that nourishes and sustains my weakened soul. The only sound that manages to escape my uncoordinated lips are murmurs of astonishment, incomprehensible, and an occasional explicit word--whispered softly in disbelief and carried forth on a cold cloud of breath. The ugly word is immediately transmuted by the beauty of this place. 

I am driven to silence by my closeness to heaven. I am on top of the world surrounded by the Himalayan Mountains. They are intimidating giants threatening me with their terribleness yet, inviting, drawing me in with their inexhaustible beauty. I am at their mercy--a small animate, short-lived speck of matter standing in the shadows of kings as old as time. Who am I to look upon their majesties with chin raised high and eyes unyielding? How dare I stand tall and not buckle my knees in respectful worship! I am tiny and inconsequential, but for now, in this moment, I am full of vigor and as strong and formidable as those ice-crowned peaks. I am fragile yet unbreakable. Weak yet powerful. I am mortal and will soon be gone--not even a memory left of my name--but at this moment I am alive. So very alive.


The alpenglow from the sinking sun spills over the cragged faces, causing crystal-like glaciers to burst into flames. I am bathed in light and happiness. I have never been this high on earth before, carried by my hardened will and sturdy feet. The emotions that I cannot express with my voice begin to well up in my throat and eyes. These sentiments I choke down and wipe away. I hold back. When true beauty is absorbed into one's being it must find release. In words, writings, shouts of jubilance, tears of joy. It must be expressed. To hold these experiences captive is selfish as well as dangerous. As big and encompassing as some hearts are they cannot contain these powerful sites. It would be foolish to try. These moments were meant to break free.

Some illuminations fall beyond the borders of our vocabulary and are impossible to capture. I know my efforts, as pure and well-intentioned as they may be, will be a disappointment to the reality of this moment. Not even my memory will be able to recreate these vivid colors. Only a shadow will remain. But that shadow will have the ability to strike me mute again and again. I will treasure these memories until I die or until my mind is lost to age. They will live on, timeless and powerful. 

Once upon a time I stood on the top of the world--a pilgrim of Helambu.