Sacred Valley

The paved road to Pokhara is one of the few improved roads in the country. It is barely wide enough for two buses going opposite directions – with a deep ditch on the inside and steep drops off the other, the drivers have gotten pretty adept at navigating the curves. This means they go faster. There are few cars on the road, mostly buses, vans and motorbikes. The procession up is crowded with travelers going home for the Hindu holiday Dassain. A gaggle of passengers ride on top of the vans with tethered goats in makeshift pens munching on hay while the stench of burning brakes fills the space between passing buses... you hope it's the other vehicle.

Trash is tossed out the windows regularly as the passengers seem to think nothing of the countryside and villages they transit through, which are kept clean by the enclaves that live there. Deep ravines give glimpses of layers of mountains beyond as women carrying bundles of firewood or hay several times their own weight hike the vertical walking paths. Flocks and cattle often block the road, setting off a honking frenzy for the bus drivers who just want to get through as fast as possible. Even through more primitive villages, immaculately groomed women look like moving rainbows dressed in bright mutli-colored saris and scarves.

At noon, the bus ambles into the Hamlet Restaurant for a squat break, as those are the only toilets available on this trek, and I wonder how these people get their reading done. By 1:30 we're pulling into the Riverside Springs Resort for lunch, which was included in the price of the $18 bus ticket. The Indian food buffet, deliciously refreshing on a terrace overlooking a wide river, put the color back into the faces of those riders who had to use the little waxed motion sickness bags during the five hour toss.

Photography can never capture the full presence of actual space... of body in its relationship to raw magnificence (and the Crested Butte Photography Guild will probably revoke my membership upon hearing this, or at least I'll get a good thrashing when I get home...) My first glimpse of what I thought to be clouds, literally took my breath away. High into clouds were spiked, glistening mountain peaks, brilliant white and unbelievably huge. The girl next to me gasped, or maybe it was my own voice as we caught sight of it simultaneously. The rest of the passengers, having seen this view before went about their post lunch coma snoring.

“That one is Machhupuchhre, and that other is one of the Annapurnas,” the Indian gentleman in the aisle seat offered to the two dazed girls. “Machhupuchhre is called the fishtail because it resembles one.” Slapped by a fish, I couldn't take my eyes off of it and searched every time we rounded a corner that brought the peak closer into view. We were still 120 km from Pokhara. Gripped by exhilaration at the prospect of hiking into the bowls of these giants I suddenly hoped I wouldn't be laid out incapacitated at their feet.

Finally, Pokhara, portal to the sacred valley trail heads, the lakeside resort without all the kitsch I'm accustomed to in upstate New York. I check into the Grand Holiday Hotel, not quite on the lake as advertised in the brochure, but a block away in the Lakeside District. I didn't really care and the room was much nicer than their friend's in Kathmandu, now far behind. The view out the window from my bed scanned the entire range, still mostly hidden in clouds. I head out into the late afternoon.

At Lake Fewa, the colors are orchestrating into sunset as tourists arrive to hire the many rowboats dotting the waters. Tall tropically green hills dive into the shoreline speckled with purple hyacinths while shafts of light play hide and seek between the layers. Suddenly, the clouds dissolve exposing the full glory of the impossibly high mountains that float like an unreal hologram in the heavens. Everyone turns in awe at this revelation. I forget to breathe. I can't speak, there are no words. I can't move or take my eyes off the towers spiking infinitely upward for fear of missing some nuance of color. Alpenglow is an entirely different experience on 25,000 feet of mountain. Like a clan of stunningly beautiful women in saris, intense pink and orange, purple and deep blues blush the faces of the evening Himalayans, driving the color upwards until spellbound, I realize the evening has fallen and jewels of the night sparkle in the sky.