Light in the Forest

Down the two thousand portal steps of the other side of Chomrong, across a rotted wood suspension bridge slung high over a raging river the bamboo forest is rife with trekkers, some as green as the foliage. Monkeys are not rare but to see them when your eyes are always downward focused on the rocky path is a reminder that you came half way around the world to take in the scenery. We see two swinging from large moss covered trees. Flowers and delicate ferns are thick; beautiful parasitic plants drape themselves from trunks.

The path is often just a creek bed, water running through strewn boulders until you get to more stairs, which are far less now since the jungle topography is fairly level. Hundreds of waterfalls roar down from mountain tops ‒ liquid curtains undulating through deep crevices in rock, bouncing off cliffs and finally trickling into the many little gurgling grottoes. If you ever played Myst in the 90s, the sounds of the bamboo forest were what they could have modeled the soothing water sounds of Channelwood after.

The path crosses gnarled tree roots, orange and smooth from untold years of human feet polishing them. Birdsong is melodically hidden in the thickness of bamboo and mossy branches. The rhododendron won't color the forest with its bright blooms until March and April. The sun is glaring but in the microcosm of the bamboo cluster we are damply shaded in another world where donkeys are thankfully not allowed.

Up ahead on the trail is a lone woman. The brim of her straw hat doesn't quite cover bright eyes and cheekbones that that rise with her smile. Hiking trousers cuffed with decorative beads and embroidery, jacket bordered with mirrored bands of ornamentation, long braided hair extensions twisted to one side of her head, walking stick in hand she turns to say, “'Ello, Namaste!”

A Brit, stylin' her way through the forest alone. Dhanu was delirious at the prospect of a roommate. I was happy to meet a kindred elf spirit in the woods. Serendipitous instant synergy, she starts walking along as though she had been trekking with us from the start. Gabby from Cambridge is a dancer, social worker, massage therapist, traveler, musician and gypsy in equal parts.

Emerging from the denseness into the village of Bamboo, all the rooms are full and we're told they there is no vacancy at the next village, Duvon, an hour away. But Gabby miraculously conjures up a dorm room with four beds, one already occupied by a young German girl, and the three of us move in, relieved we don't have to share the storeroom or sleep with the sherpas, as the rain starts to pound the metal roof.

Immediately following dinner, inevitably dal bhat the tastiest and most filling, all the lodges send the guides to their charges to write up the breakfast order, which is hard to think about with a warm belly of dal. Guides and porters are always fed last, meaning about 9 p.m. after schlepping the big loads up steeps through the heat all day.

Throughout the trek, male guides, porters and villagers snarl with disdain when they see a female guide. Some do a double take, some call out rude quips and some just stare frowning. This will change in the next five years as women break into the trade more fully. As it is, I'm amused and Dhanu just ignores them.
“Namaste” I chortle to gawkers, smiling like Jack coming down the beanstalk with the golden goose.

I wake to a wet sleeping bag and water sporadically spraying from the bamboo mat ceiling. The night was soaked in downpour, saturating the roof. The squat toilet is dank and cold with the unsavoriness of a cattle feed lot. Breakfast is waiting. Cold damp fog sets upon us as we trudge off to Deurali, the last village stay before the ascent to Annapurna Base Camp. Donning wool caps, gloves and jackets through more bamboo forest and mud paths until the terrain opens, the peaks are obscured by afternoon cloud cover as Deurali comes into view above the trail.

It's only 2 p.m. and we find a room in one of the four guest lodges, order hot ginger tea and dal bhat and settle in for a half day of rest before the final four and a half hour trek to Annapurna Base Camp (ABC). The waterfalls above and river below are engorged with rain, deafening throughout the day and night. The locals say it's unusual to have so much rain this late in the season, monsoons should have ended over two weeks ago.

Cocooned once again in my bag, I sleep in my wool hat, long johns and fleece ‒ camera batteries, ipod and laptop enclosed within to keep the cold from draining them. I learn not to drink liquids late because there's no way I'll be leaving this warm down shelter to crawl off in the dark, cold mist to the horror of the squat hole in the middle of the night. I dream of thinner air and sunshine.