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Nepali Dreams
A Midwinter Trek through the Himalayas
by Cynthia J. Cox
 

photo by Cynthia J. Cox

Excerpts:

     The mists were evaporating in the warm morning sun as we began our trek through the Annapurnas, a mountain range in the Himalayas of Nepal. At breakfast, we had debated what would be the heartiest meal to get us through the first of 18 days of physical exertion. The Nepali men swore by dal bhat, a lentil soup served with rice. But they ate that at every meal, or so our guide told us.
     “Even at home?” we asked him.
     “Yes,” he nodded.
     “For breakfast? For lunch? For dinner?” my companion Margrette asked.
     “Yes,” he said with a wide grin, “dal bhat.”
A few days earlier, I’d had no idea I would be taking this trek. Nepal was never a dream of mine. For some it holds a rugged, mystical appeal that inspires visions of scaling towering peaks, but I’ve never been much of a mountaineer . . .

. . .

 . . . We arose at three o’clock in the morning and began a steady ascent, breathing thin air and concentrating on each movement, planting our boots in the snow. Our only light was the small beam of a flashlight somewhere behind me, which cast a halo in the snow in front. It was as if I existed in a tunnel. When I paused to look up, the stars seemed closer, brighter. I forgot who was ahead of me and who behind and felt only each step, each breath, counting the one for the other. Four steps, one breath. Slowly.

     We stopped at a small lodge several hours from the pass. Natalie's water bottle had frozen shut. We passed around the frozen Snickers bars we had saved for this day and hurried back outside. Resting in this kind of cold is impossible, and while other days we had stopped to take pictures or just to gaze at the scenery, today we had one goal: getting there.

     As we began walking once again – up, always up – I heard Julie in front of me repeating a mantra of Hail Marys. I just kept counting, my breath, my steps, anything to forget about the numbing cold and the miles of waist-deep snow ahead.  . . .

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