Don't Forget to Tip Your Gods

"Microburst [mahy-kruh-burst]: A sudden, violent downdraft of air over a small area (less than 6.24 sq mi) that lasts at least 25 minutes. Microbursts can cause winds with speeds as high as 167 mph. They are difficult to detect and predict with standard weather instruments."

We returned to the River of No Return with truckloads of respect. You have to respect your gods, the River Gods.

We rigged our boats and set off. Each morning we toasted our gods with sacrificial beer and every evening we feasted over fires, danced, played music, sang, and hoola-hooped our way across the Salmon's beaches. We loved our Gods. On the fifth night, we donned red dresses in ceremonial honor of their benevolence.

Yet despite it all, on the sixth day, the burst came. I'm not one to point fingers, but someone seriously disrespected a God. We had no idea what we were about to endure. In fact, we all pretty much stood there complacently watching a massive weather system come soaring up the canyon, snapping full grown ponderosas as it came. Reality dawned on us in the form of blinding sand-whipped winds. It trashed tents, battered bodies, released rains, and dispensed confusion as people took cover behind whatever they could find.

When it finally passed, we blinked, spat, and rubbed sand from our eyes. The camp was in shambles and trees were down all around us. Our beers were full of sand, so we uncorked the well-sealed Whiskey.

"...some of you looked better in red
dresses than others." -Dorian Parker

The next morning, in quiet awe, we floated our final miles in deep respect. Relenting, the sun came out, spirits returned, rapids rock and rolled and we remembered how much we love our gods.

It was a simple reminder: Always Tip Your Gods.

(Photos:  here.)

Perfectly Temporary

Temporary. It's my size, it's my color. It just fits.

I'm back at work temporarily, I'll be working there thru October. I've moved off the yatch, but the yatch was temporary. On my desk is a two quart jug of carrot juice. I've stopped buying the single pints at the cafe. I could drink this stuff all day.

I use to drink coke all day. Hey, I'm a software developer; it's the culture.

It wasn't that I craved the soda, but rather I was completely addicted to the shiny red can. It called to me. I could hear it's siren song a mile away and when I saw one glimmering in the soda aisle, I would go mad for it.

I don't keep cokes in my fridge at home. I don't have a fridge at home. I don't have a home. In fact, I'm living in a buddies attic. I know it doesn't sound as luxurious as a yatch, but it's really quite grand with an enormous antique shiny round red metal coke sign hanging in the center. It's not my sign.

The attic has a completely open floor plan. In fact, it's nothing but studs and skylights, but it has three of it's four walls. If I stand in the enormous shower and turn around, I see nothing but neighborhood and open sky where the wall use to be.

Whatever, it's not permanent.

Last meal

Second Time? Second Time?

Yes. Second time, we nod.

About ten minutes from the airport is a lesser known hotel that offers all the amenities at affordable price. We stopped on the way in and we stopped on the way out.

Down the street, we returned to an outdoor restaurant which treated us well the first time through. A large concrete slab with a tin roof and plastic tables, they remembered us and catered dutifully to our whims. There was no English, just a plethora of fresh fish, soups, and smiling faces despite turning down their proffered chicken foot soup.

In the warm night, the rains came down hard and the canvas walls were lowered to lash about in the wind. We soaked it up one last time, a second time indeed. And we’ll be back.

Voted off the island

A gentle tide and waveless beaches. Perfect: a handful of days on warm, sunny Thai beaches with bowls of green curry, fresh coconut shakes, and the occasional beer Chang.  

No tours, schedules, or agendas. Just a gentle jungle breeze on the beach. 

But the time has come, I’ve been voted off the Island.

I’m heading home.

Chitwan National Park

I came to see the rhinos and we trekked thru grasslands and jungle forest to find them.

In the grasses, which are higher than me at this time of year, the guide said we’d notice movement of large animals by the rustling. Yet it was the still grass of animals lying in wait that concerned me.

In the forest, we found the tell-tale tracks of the three toed Indian Rhinoceros and followed them as they trod along a small path. When they wandered off the path into the thick of the forest, we went in the opposite direction.

If I were a tracker, I’d follow the tracks. But I’m not, and our guide is, and he’s still alive. So what do I know?

An hour later we climbed atop a raised, wooden viewing tower and spotted yesterday’s wild male elephant. Arguably more dangerous today due to his unrealized goals from the night before, he looked peaceful and graceful to me.

From the raised station we watched him disappear into the jungle, right in the vicinity of our path. This unnerved the guides so we waited and the clouds grew darker.

Eventually we could wait no longer and with dramatic thunder in the background, we amassed in number, joining forces with two other groups and proceeded into the jungle toward the frustrated beast. Our guides were visibly anxious.

After half an hour of jumping at each snapped twig, we finally saw his tracks cross ours, leading away. Guides scrambled into trees, verified the stillness of the grasses, and we proceeded to track monkeys and deer.

It was then, deeper in the forest and on foot and at the furthest point from our lodging that the canopy thickened, the clouds blackened, and the rains came down hard.

I really, really want to see a rhino

Ten bucks for the tourist bus, luxury non-stop with air con. Or, maybe, no aircon. And maybe just one stop: to kick us off.

The students were pissed. Three months ago the government promised them books, pens, and paper. Three months later, they still had none and it was the week before exams. So they dragged trees and rocks across the road and stopped traffic.

Our bus company simply re-routed their trip, dropped us off on the side of the road, and shrugged as they pulled away. We crawled atop a local bus and endured five more hours of crossing picket lines on foot, in taxis, on buses, each one dead ending and sending us forward to figure out how best to go forward, toward Chitwan National Park.

At one point our cab was waved into the mob by a few authoritative students, but was stopped twenty feet later, by student intervention physically blocking and pounding on the vehicle. Were forced to pay up, get out, and start walking again, concerned for our taxi’s ability to extricate himself from the melee.

Finally, at sunset, we sank into riverside chairs in the national park and drank a well earned beer while a wild male elephant sauntered across the river in what would be a late night attempt to break into the elephant breeding center down the road from our lodging.

He was categorically denied access and the locals said that makes him dangerous.

That makes sense to me.

Celebrity

Peter Habelar was the first man to summit Everest without oxygen. He did it with legendary climber, Reinhold Messner, and the night before our first attempt to fly home, we showed him how to play pool. He’s a much better mountaineer.

The next morning, after everyone else flew out of Lukla, we sat in an empty lodge, eating breakfast, awaiting our turn. Sitting next to us was Sir Edmund Hillary’s son and granddaughter.

Hillary is a local hero, not only for first summiting Everest, but for the dozens of schools and hospitals he built for the Sherpa people, after 60 plus children signed a petition, asking him to build them a school.

The “house wife” presented the granddaughter with a Sherpa gown to be worn at a ceremony later that week. Peter, the son, was taking pictures and I offered to take one of the whole family. He appreciated the offer and I snapped away.

It was my first celebrity photo shoot. Albeit on his camera.

Popcorn at fourteen thousand feet

Getting down is the hardest part and we were aggressive. So much so, we broke our Sherpa and had to pay him double that day.

On the second descent day we nursed our ailments from the previous day’s twelve hour hike with dal baat and chang (the rice wine).

We drank a lot of chang that morning.

Back in Lukla, we were greeted with chocolate cake, wine and showers which our tight budget on the ascent excluded. We never skimped on ever-present Nepalese popcorn, an indulgence at every teahouse.

Our descent was so aggressive, we arrived a day early, but so did the rains and it wasn’t possible to fly back just yet. The next day was quite cloudy, but we were on the first flight so if any plane came in, we’d be on it when it returned. So we waited and one came.

It was a little twenty seater and mine was right behind the pilot. Our little plane bounced along the runway, down the hill, and toward the cliff we flew off.

The pilots window was down and I could feel the fresh breeze on my face, though it didn't change the fact that my clothes still smell like smoked yak dung.

Ringing Everest's Doorbell

On May 10th, the twelfth anniversary of Jon Kraukauer’s Everest summit, we found ourselves in the airport heading to Lukla and the trek to Everest’s south side. Just before boarding we grabbed a copy of the book.

Nine days later, visiting the lodges and familiar with the trails the books expeditions took, we marched into Everest Base Camp. We stood at 17,400 feet in a city of tents. It's Everest's welcome mat and we rang the doorbell.

It’s a place of dreams and all their varied outcomes.

Prayer Wheels

I first intended to go to India a few years ago, but instead fell hard for a remarkable woman and cut my trip short. But it wasn’t meant to be and two strong personalitie soon found themselves frustrating one another. One year later I was again dreaming of India.

In the Khumbu Himalaya of Nepal, prayer flags, prayer wheels, and mani walls line the paths I trek. As is the Buddhist custom, they are always passed on the left and as I encounter the wheels, I give them a spin, and for each one think of a loved one, past or present, in the winds of the Himalaya.

In Tengboche, I visit a monastery and spend an afternoon in the cold room at twelve thousand feet, open doors, monks bowed and chanting, accompanied by occasional music. I watch from the dark as streams of light silhouette the rhythmically gyrating saffron robes and the air is thick with incense and frosted breath.

It is peaceful, the chanting, and I close my eyes, sitting cross-legged on the carpets in the corner and wish I could lie down and fall asleep here; for it to never stop.

Today, as is her wish, and for reasons I’ll never understand, our relationship is estranged. But after another morning in the monastery, I leave, breathe the cold mountain air, and return to spinning the prayer wheels, wishing peace for her and all.

Hike, eat, sleep and repeat

Yaks perform only above ten thousand feet; the cows below sixty five hundred. They cross bred them to fill in the gap and the mixed breed works inbetween. How is it I’m expected to function at all these elevations? I’m not even from around here.

Acclimitization days we hike packless, generally climbing 1200 feet or so, then return, eat, sleep, and wait for the next days climb. After each rest, dahl baht and tomato egg drop soup, we are all psyched for another day of climbing; to take the next step.

Aside from that anticipation, it’s barren. From the menu, to the accommodations, to the landscape. It’s cold, windy, and colorless. But the mountains are tremendous, this place is big. It’s a place of dreams, when sleep comes and even a midnight bathroom trip is a heart racer.

Completely Unprepared

Compared to India, Kathmandu is almost a cheat. Crossing the street is almost easy. There are a couple stop lights, the occasional sidewalk, and not a single sign of livestock. Thats not to say you couldn't get yourself killed, but with no cow patties to hop, no hagglers to dodge, and temperatures back in the pleasant range, a lot of the challenges have been removed.

Regardless, today was a bit exhausting as we whipped around town in cabs and on foot, following Perwa Sherpa as we raced along to finalize permits and tickets, secure the last minute cold weather gear, and gather with the mountaineers around a map.

Tomorrow is the twelfth anniversary of Jon Krakauer's summit in the book, Into Thin Air. We've got the book and a six a.m. Yeti Airlines flight into the Everest region.

We ain't comin' out for twelve days.