From time to time I will be posting photos and videos from my trip. The first one? An excursion just after dawn on the Ganges River, the holiest river in India. For 200 Rupees (less than a couple of dollars) I was taken a half hour up river in the city of Varanasi as people washed clothes, bathed or played in the water, as it was going to hit 106 degrees later that day. It was already over 90. Never have I been so close to jump in fetid liquid, but it was SO HOT. Apologies for the out-of-focus-ness of the video.

Time truly does fly. Last I wrote, I was just beginning to adjust to the reality of home after a life-altering 8 weeks in India and Nepal. Many of you were there with me all along the way. Your presence and comments lifted me out of occasional bouts of loneliness and depression. Traveling solo is thrilling and fulfilling but can also give one a little too much time to reflect. That said, I cannot wait to hit the road again and send dispatches back to inform and, hopefully, inspire. I realized blog writing is my favorite writing: having an experience, coming back to my room and writing about it and then sharing it with friends, family and in this blog’s case, people from 28 countries. Thank you very much for coming along with the ride. I LOVED knowing people were out there.

This year brings a different but familiar challenge…doing my part, and inspiring others to do theirs, to join the fight to beat blood cancer!

https://pages.lls.org/tnt/oswim/lavatri20/DWilliams

I will be participating in the Lavaman Triathlon on the big island of Hawaii on April 5th and I am doing it with Team In Training, the fundraising arm of the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. My father died of Leukemia in 2001 and I have participated in nearly a dozen triathlons since then in his honor, raising over $35,000 for the cause of beating blood cancer.But this year it got more personal. My coach, teammate and dear friend Carly Van Aart has been fighting Acute Myeloid Leukemia since being diagnosed with it on December 30, 2019. She joined Team In Training the same year I did, 2006, and has raised thousands of dollars since then to beat the cancer she is now gallantly fighting. The cruelest of ironies. So this year, I race for Carly and I raise funds for Carly. Please join me by making a donation today. It’s 100% tax-deductible and every cent goes to the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society.

https://pages.lls.org/tnt/oswim/lavatri20/DWilliams

Thank you very much!!! Please visit my fundraising page today and join my team!!

I reluctantly took my cab to the Mumbai airport late in the evening on May 16th. My flight was scheduled for 1:55 am on Friday, May 17th and all of a sudden, I was getting cold feet. I had been in Mumbai three days after the heat of Varanasi and even though all I did was hang out with the throngs of people at the Crawford Market, it was enough for me to pump the brakes a bit on my enthusiasm for returning to Oregon. First of all, I learned that I’m a true extrovert, as defined by how I re-charge. I literally stood at an intersection of two narrow streets and let the energy well-up inside me from the hundreds of people who were going this way and that. Sometimes I would take photos, other times just stand off to the side, out of the main current, and marvel at the melding of culture and commerce three feet in front of me. God, I love it SO MUCH.

So when I went up to the British Airways counter to check in and the woman there said “Sir, we are overbooked and would like to extend to you an extra day in India if you could give up your seat. And we’d also give you 250 pounds and two nights at a
hotel for your trouble.” Unsure of what I’d just heard, I said “…what?” She smiled and repeated her offer with the caveat “We still need to check to see if we can get you on the same connecting flights to Portland tomorrow but if we can, would you be
interested?” “Yes, I would be interested,” I said, now three feet off the floor. But…those pesky Portland connection flights. Therein lies the rub. When I booked this flight, I used a zillion frequent flyer miles so my return to Portland looked like this: Mumbai to London, London to Los Angeles, Los Angeles to San Francisco, San Francisco to Portland. With the weekend coming up, I wasn’t too optimistic about it all coming together. And come together, it did not. About an hour before take off, she told me they didn’t need my seat. I was free to board. …..yay??? I mean, yes, I wanted to come home, but another (free!) day in India?! Bring it on! So my May 17th began with slight disappointment. And due to my large self, only got worse.

British Airways economy class is not designed for the Bumbles of this world. I slipped off my hiking boots so my feet wouldn’t swell and stick inside them. And then it became clear that the man next to me and I would be fighting for Arm Rest Real Estate
for the next 9+ hours. It was a silent war, but we knew it was happening as it raged on. Switching to another BA flight in London was marginally better. The first one, out of Mumbai and in the pitch of night, allowed me zero comfort in trying to sleep. So I didn’t. I tried, but just didn’t. Ditto on the flight to LA which, at 10.5 hours, was longer than the first. So I watched “A Private War”, “The Girl in the Spider’s Web”, “Whiplash” and “The Grapes of Wrath”. I recommend all of them, by the way, and it was a great way to pass the time in my shoe box.

I landed in LA, which meant I came in as an international traveler but went out a domestic one. That meant collecting my luggage and re-submitting it for TSA approval. I think you can all guess what happened. Anyway, I discovered upon entering my flight to San Francisco that that lovely British Airways ticket agent in Mumbai had booked me EXIT ROW seats on my two connecting Alaska Airlines flights. In so doing, she guaranteed herself Extra Good Karma from the west. That small gesture was ever-so appreciated.

By the time I landed in PDX, my worst fears had come true: my two bags did not make it with me. So, at the end of my journey, a journey that saw me awake for 61 straight hours, travelling for 42 of them, I realized that I would be robbed of sleep in the middle of the night (hopefully!) as my bags would be delivered here at home. They came around 2:00, as expected, and I’ve spent the day unpacking, literally and metaphorically. For now, however, it’s time for a nap.

The chaos of Delhi was quickly followed by the surrealism of Varanasi. The surrealism and the HEAT. I was there four days and every day it was at least 106 degrees. And that heat? Well, let’s just say it didn’t ramp up slowly. Ninety-four degrees at 8:00 in the morning is cruel and I’m sorry to say I spent a lot of my time in that holy city in front of the holy air conditioner. And because I’m a big man with an above average cooling system, I sweat like that pig you’ve heard of. I’m not complaining when I say I was quite uncomfortable. That said (and perhaps because I’m on the other side of it), I am SO glad I went to Varanasi. And I would highly recommend it to any and everyone who ponders a visit.

The city is one of the oldest living cities in the world and with multiple Hindu temples, the holiest Hindu city in India. The most famous facet of Varanasi is the public cremations, held at two of the city’s 88 ghats. Manikarnika Ghat is where
most of the public cremations happen and the three levels of where they burn the bodies are separated by caste: low, medium and high. The highest caste bodies are cremated on top of the ghat sheltered by a building, where the ashes are more easily collected. As you step down in caste, so do you step down the slope of the ghat until you are next to the Ganges.

That is where the poor are cremated and where you can observe the ritual more closely. I’m sounding fairly antiseptic here because what I saw was so surreal, so mind-blowing that, once again, it is hard to put into words. I was told by my guest house host that Varanasi has cleaned up a lot in the last three years. He said bodies used to just be left on the street, lined up to be cremated, one after the other. A friend of mine told me when she was there a few years ago, she saw a dog chewing on a skull it had dragged out of the lower burn area. Dogs were meandering around the place this time, to be sure, but (thankfully) I didn’t see anything like that. But I did see enough. And while it was strange to witness, it was also strangely beautiful and a great reminder of the quickness of life. I left the ghat after an hour, somewhat in a trance, as at least seven bodies were burning in various areas and stages when I left. And the tenders kept pounding the scaffoldings of logs to enhance the burn. And a stream of bodies was brought down on bamboo ladders used as stretchers. And they were unwrapped of their funereal clothing. And placed very delicately upon their wooden pyre. And it was lit. And it continues. Hour after hour, day after day.

The most famous ghat is the Dashashwamedh Ghat, where hundreds of people gather each night to witness a most beautiful religious ceremony. It’s quite hypnotic, with music, chants, bells, conch horns and devotees gathering at the ghat to witness it all.

After a two-hour guided tour of a handful of temples, I was walking down a narrow path that all of a sudden was blocked by a large cow. With horns. By this time, I’d become used to the docile nature of these beasts, who are left to roam the country, the city, the you-name-it. So as I began to pass the bull (who was facing me), I began to say “hey buddy” when the giant animal all of a sudden whipped his head at my waist, driving one horn against my thigh and the other against my side. Hurt like hell. I jumped through an empty gate onto someone’s driveway. The owner was home and started shouting at me “Get out! You don’t belong here! Leave!” But see, there was ANOTHER steer blocking my way and there was no way in hell I was going to pass that sacred animal. So I ignored the homeowner and watched the next four-legged ton amble by, no big deal.

My room at the guest house had a view of the Ganges. And on two of the four nights, I sat on the cement roof sipping warm, canned beer, watching packed tourist boats slowly hum by. The sounds of dogs, cows, monkeys, cars, fireworks and laughter punctuated the swelter, which grasped me tightly whenever I ventured outside. But there’s something magical about that city, now that I can look at it with a different (and cooler) lens. So many people, so much ritual, so much fire. Constant. And the salesmen are quick and clever with never-ending energy. And you see their shops and they have rebuttals and you feel a part of it all. So much color and dynamism. I tried to stay away but kept going back. I walked the ghats and was ambushed by children, imploring me for selfies and asking all sorts of questions. Many times, a parent would come up to me and ask if it would be okay if their child asked me some questions. Other times the audacity of youth would propel kids to march right up and demand answers: “WHERE ARE YOU FROM?”

It’s relentless. It’s Varanasi.

So my great friend Carly and I share a few passions. Raising money to defeat blood cancer is one, triathlon is another, swimming 10,000 meters at the drop of the hat is a third. Okay, so maybe THAT one is Carly’s. I drop hats. Anyway, the third thing we covet is (are?) waffles! The taste sensation that’s sweeping the nation! Well, NATIONS. So while in India, I kept an eye out for those savory-sweet pockets of goodness, but to no luck. But in Nepal? You betcha! Found a place in Pokhara and actually said the words “Hey baby, I’m comin’ back to check you out later!” Dammit! When will I learn? A dream delayed is a dream denied! I made it back to that waffle window and it was closed both times. CURSES.

Thankfully, I have Marek and Anna as friends. They are well-versed in the secret of the squares, hailing from Poland where waffles are king. So with two more noses on the case, I was optimistic, nay, starving. So one glorious night, Marek and Anna found a place in Kathmandu! Alas, good try, Nepal, but I must say, you are no Waffle Window. But please, keep trying. So I had to notify Carly of our discovery, even if it meant waiting a few more weeks until I was back in Portland.

The closer you get to the river Ganges, the more the alleyways of Varanasi narrow. My guest house over-looked the river, so my local labyrinth was the last one of the group and therefore, most narrow. This meant that man, woman, child or all 3 on a motorbike, dogs, cows, monkeys, all shared this tight, meandering walkway. Mine was a healthy walk from my guest house to the road that held the bazaar. My last night in Varanasi I videotaped my walk in order to show you the hive of activity the alleys were. As I type this I’m back in Mumbai, just two short days from my flight home. Varanasi is a hard, hot, difficult, beautiful place. I would (and will) go back.

On my first night, I past a window where a man was cooking some sort of ball and since they were only 10 rupees apiece, I bought three (this was a bold step, as I’ve avoided most street food in favor of stomach health [I plan to behave differently on my return trip]) and watched as he dumped them in a little newspaper cone, powdering them with salt before handing them over to me. I bit into the steaming orb and saw that it was cornmeal along with onion, spices and green pepper. It was a hushpuppy!! Hot damn! I found fresh hushpuppies in Varanasi! I woofed them down and would go back each day, but I never timed it right. Three hushpuppies is all this man from Kentucky would get, but it was enough. Because all was well in Stomach Town.

So here is a little glimpse into the buzz of Varanasi. Warning: May cause hunger.

We choose to emphasize certain memories and feelings of places. For me, the calm and reflective air given to me high in the Himalayas or the beauty and perfumed sense at Swayambhunath overrule the murk and din of one of the dirtiest cities I’ve ever been, Kathmandu. My first night in Delhi gave me nothing but chaos (or so I remember). And my memories of the four days in that city will be foremost, not the space and grandeur of the Red Fort or the respect and love of the Gandhi Memorial, but the non-stop cacophonous rage of horns through every day and night. And so it goes.

So, to reflect this admitted bias, I give you two videos: one, the tranquil, peaceful top of
Swayambhunath in Kathmandu and two, looking down on a crazy parade in Delhi, pushing itself down a most-crowded street, four stories below my perch. I love it all.

It’s been awhile since I’ve fallen in love with a country. Twenty-nine years, to be exact. But this time it was just a bit different. A bit less expected. More…mature, if you will. In 1990, the love came from Greece and it came immediately: On the tarmac at Athens International Airport, I stood, agape, as a sudden, heated feeling emanated from my chest. A warm, radiating sense that I was somehow, some way, finally, back home. Not five minutes in this new world and I belonged. It was a strong and undeniable love and not unrequited.

Fast forward 29 years to earlier this Spring. I had the task of the Annapurna Circuit ahead of me and it was that that I was focusing on. And when I was busy looking one way, love came in another, sat there, planted itself in my soul, waited patiently and slowly grew. So slowly that I didn’t even feel its existence for over a week. By the fifth day of my trek, there was no denying it: I had fallen for this little country – wedged between the behemoths of India and China and rubbing (very large) shoulders with the kingdom of Bhutan.

So how did it happen? This love for the (middle) ages?

First, Nepal threw a curveball. I arrived from Mumbai all high on verdant dreams, expecting to look out my taxi window to plush hills dripping high waterfalls, hearing song birds welcome me to paradise as they flit and flirt between blossom-draped branches. What I got was akin to being spanked awake. Arriving not-so-late in the evening, the streets were choked with dust and powdered feces, with motorcycles uncaring and seemingly unaware of any rules or laws. Our driver knew the language of negotiation so we arrived at my hotel unscathed, but each road we drove down was straight from a Mad Max storyboard. The spectrum of colors ranged from light grey to black, save for the occasional bursts of lamplight illuminating this hellscape completely opposite of what I had dreamed.

I trudged upstairs with my pack, depressed with the fact my hoped-for new love was NOT what I had expected. Not even close. Like meeting someone who might light that spark only to find out they’ve never brushed their teeth.

So, immediately, my expectations were squashed. And it was the best thing that could have happened. Devoid of infatuation, I began to take care of business, working on details of the trek to come, taking in every sight, sound, smell, touch and feeling on its own merits, not comparing it to any other sensation or any source that had come before. In hindsight, I am a tremendously lucky human. As Theodore Roosevelt said “Comparison is the thief of joy”. So, it stands to reason that if there is no comparison, there is ample joy. Or at least room for it. And as I met Nepali after Nepali, as I laughed and smiled in the mirror of children’s faces, as I met dozens of people on their own journeys of challenge and risk, as I reached deep into my reserves to make my own dreams come true, the seed that had settled on my soul took hold, weathered storms of doubt and fear, grew strong from food, faith and confidence and before I knew it, had entered my bloodstream without me knowing.

After climbing down from Thorong-La, in sometimes gentle, sometimes harrowing grades, so, too, was my soul received in varying degrees of descent. I wasn’t immediately plopped back down in Kathmandu and her crazy mess of urban crush. No. I was moved downward from one plane to another, acclimatizing in reverse, getting used to the sprawl I had escaped a week or so earlier. First, one day in Muktinath. I was able to take a warm shower and almost immediately go to bed. But the best part of this day was running into Shrekanth, a friend I had hiked with earlier in the week. We had gone our separate ways but if you’ve traveled you know that you WILL run into people again when you’re out and about. It’s one of the glorious axioms of exploration. Then, two days in Tatopani. Perched on the side of a hill, out of range of the noise and combustion of passing buses, Tatopani gave me the first glimpse of true recovery. My first beer in over a month (aptly named “Namaste”) followed by a half hour in a large pool of natural hot springs proved to be most recuperative.

Then…well, I can only say “Pokhara, where have you been all my life?” Four days in the absolute-chill and progressive city of Pokhara, where the AM/PM Organic Cafe was my first stop each day for coffee and a large bowl of organic fruit. I resumed my friendship with Marek and Anna (we first met in High Camp, our last stop before the pass) and my fifth-story corner room of the Hotel Orchid was the perfect place to get back to “normal”. Then, two days in Chitwan National Forest (including rhino sightings) and finally, three days in Kathmandu. My re-entry to city life was now complete.

Marek and Anna were staying at “my” hotel upon our return (the Kathmandu Boutique Hotel) and they were just the energy I needed to kickstart myself into more activity around the city instead of putting it into cruise control waiting for the inevitable.

We returned to two Buddhist temples and visited a Hindu temple where we witnessed a riverside cremation and its accompanying ceremony. It was beautiful, sad and sorrowful, and life-affirming all at once.

On Sunday, May 5th, as I scurried about, picking up souvenirs at a furious, bank-breaking pace, I kept one thought blissfully at bay: I would be leaving Nepal this day, not knowing if or when I would ever return. But when the time came to catch a ride to the airport, it wasn’t sadness that sat in the back seat. Not even close. It was every person, feeling and friendship that had surfaced to meet me in that little country over the previous 3+ weeks.

Farewell, Nepal. I love you.

When last we talked, I was on top of the world mentally, spiritually & emotionally. 🙂

Hanging out on Thorong-La was pure happiness. So many people were relieved to have finally reached the top that the energy of the pass was palpable. I didn’t want to leave and I wasn’t the only one lolly-gagging, either. I’d have photos taken of me, of Sanju and me, I’d take photos of others, (“David we must go”), of the landscape (“David.”), of the prayer flags (“David, the snow is melting, we must go down.”), of more people, of the tiny cafe at the top (“David.”), and finally, photos of what would be the way down. I didn’t want to think about going down (or hear Sanju, obviously) for one clear reason: my trek would then soon be over. All I had to do was climb down. How hard could that be?

I have no desire to climb mountains. None. I respect mountain climbers, any climbers, so much, because I know it is something I will never do. What I did was a high altitude hike in the snow, with little technical ability required. Well, I goofed in my preparation for this trip, not realizing I’d be late off the top and understand what that meant. I didn’t take snow spikes with me. You didn’t have to go all-crampon, but you did need to have some grabability, especially since I was slow going up and had allowed the sun to warm and melt snow. Hard snow and dry dirt are great. But my awesome Keen boots were screaming for a little assistance as I started slowly downhill. I had hiked 1857 feet up to Thorang-La from High Camp and now I must climb down 3891 feet to the nearest village.

Sanju was great helping me navigate the downhill. But it was hard. The sun made the snow into slush and the dirt into mud. All the while crossing the sides of steep hills with looooots of room on the other side to slide and slide and slide. Both my poles were doing great work, even though both were fully bent by this time. The first one bent on the first day when I slipped on some gravel, fell backwards and let my pole break my fall. The other one finally bent after having me lean over and rest on it day after day. But they hung in there and finally…finally…the snow receded. Oh, I must say that during this time there would be small avalanches down the face of the mountain to our left. It sounded like thunder. I’d hear it, look, and see lots of snow tumbling down the mountain face. I looked at Sanju up ahead. He was beckoning me. “Hurry.”

So I got through the snow after falling a dozen times, cursing, terrified, seeing an end in sight but way, way, WAY down there. I finally got to the switchbacks of dirt and rock and you’d think I’d feel better. Well. One of the symptoms of Acute Mountain Sickness is walking like a drunk. If you witness that in a climber, you are supposed to take them down immediately. But what if the climber is already going down? What then? I was walking like I was completely hammered, and I was so exhausted, I barely had my mental faculties. I knew what I was doing, what I had to do, where I needed to go but could…not…go…faster. Thank GOD for my poles. With them I could navigate downhill, but slowly.

And then it got really weird. As I gingerly stepped down the trail, looking at patterns on rocks and dirt, my brain began to connect the dots and present these patterns as faces. I was hallucinating. At 14,000 feet. This cannot be good. I HAD to get off that hill. So I moved as slowly and as deliberately as I could (“Hey…that looks like a pirate.”) and knew that ultimately, I would get to the cafe if I just kept moving forward.

The cafes finally came into view making the hike do-able to my brain. Panic was staved off and again, it was due to mental endurance training that got me off that hill. I finally, and barely, made it down some stone steps onto the porch of the first cafe. Sanju and the owner rushed over, each taking an arm, and guided me to a couch where I sat down. Ten minutes later I wanted to get up to get some water and another funny thing happened: I could not stand up. My legs were DONE. I had used up all my energy and
am sure-fire lucky I didn’t crumble off that hill or go into some cramping seizure. And I was very concerned I’d done some damage to my legs or maybe my brain, which continued to create faces out of objects for at least two hours (“Hello, Michael Jackson”).

When able, four of us piled into a Jeep and headed to Muktinath. After a huge pile of pasta, I slowly shuffled off to bed. The next morning, Sanju and I got onto a bus and headed to Tatopani, where we would be treated to natural hot springs that night. In fact, we were going to spend two nights in Tatopani and rest up for the return to civilization. But for two glorious, convalescing nights, strength returned to my legs and faces on rocks returned to the earth where they have stayed.

Soon I will return to the madness of Kathmandu, the crackling brain of Nepal. But for two more enchanting nights, I am in Pokhara, which, with its parks, lakes and lakeside promenade, is its soul.

Wow. That was hard. That was so very…very hard. I’m sitting with a Namaste beer on the patio of my hotel in Tatopani, a few dozen kilometers from Muktinath, the first stop when you’ve finished the Annapurna Circuit. It’s the day after the ascent on Thorang-La and an image from yesterday – yes, just yesterday – enters my head. It was when, in my confusion, I was asking myself “am I nauseaus or am I hungry?” I honestly couldn’t answer the question. Which is bad in it’s own right because you aren’t really supposed to be all wonky at 16,500 feet to prevent you from answering a basic question. Well, maybe you are, but you need to pay attention to it before you go all Charles Nelson Reilly on yourself, cracking up and hallucinating at any old thing.

I decided I was hungry. So I called out to Sonju letting him know I was stopping and then reached into my North Fake wind breaker and pulled out a half dozen CHOCOLATE COVERED WHEATABIX. AW YEAH! I ate two and started to re-wrap them to put them back in my pocket for later when Sonju said “no, no, sir. Eat them all.” And so I did, as slowly and as thoroughly as possible. I had had a bowl of porridge with apple and two fried eggs for breakfast, but those had been quickly used up and I needed more fuel.

I must say my Ironman training came into play while I stepped my way up to 17,769 feet. But not the physical part, no, no. That has long since dissolved in a melange of beer and ice cream. But it was the mental aspect forged in training that came into play yesterday and I don’t think I would have finished had I been without it. Living in the moment, not thinking about what you’ve done, not thinking about what you must do. Just taking one step and then taking another. Repeat. Often.

And of course, Sonju. Without him, there’s no WAY I accomplish what I did yesterday. Not a chance. Plain and simple. These Nepalese porters/guides are so strong and so giving (“Sir, you are my guest in my country.”) that you WANT to kick butt and reach your goal because this other human being is breaking his back so you can.

The morning started with…well, it never really started. The previous night just kind of extended itself. Because I was late getting in to High Camp, the last teahouse before setting off to the pass, I wasn’t able to get a room to myself. I had to get a dormitory room, which consisted of four cots squeezed together in this super cold room that, besides me, included a French couple named Justine and Jordan and a big man named Angus from, you guessed it, Scotland. They were all terrific people. The only problem was the double-edged sword of hydration. On one hand you must hydrate, especially at such an outrageous altitude. On the other hand, all that liquid had to go somewhere. So, five times during the night before I was to attempt something totally all-consuming, I had to get up and go to the bathroom. And by “bathroom” I mean “frozen wood pile”. And let me tell you, the door to that Flintstone’s hut was not easy-greasy, either. I tried my best to muffle the shut, but I could only do so much. Such is the price of admission.

We got out on the trail around 5:00, slowly trudging up the sides of “hills” at 15,000 feet or so. Back and forth, zig-zagging our way, higher and higher. One person came up behind me and said “Hey David! I know that’s you because of your bent hiking poles and can of Pringles sticking out the side of your bag.” I laughed and said “Oh hey, Tomar! I know you because of your biting wit!” We both laughed as he passed me.

We crossed a full metal bridge, not a suspension bridge that we had traversed a half-dozen or so times previously on the trek, and just generally went slowly up the trail, stopping every now and then to catch my breath (Sanju’s never had to be caught) or to take a photo and always both. I remember seeing the sun touch the tops of mountains as we climbed slowly up. I put on my sunglasses in the dark, getting ready for the bright visual snow blast to come.

One foot followed the other. Keep going up. Call out “Sanju…rest” when needed and find a sitting rock to attempt to slow my breathing.

I kept checking myself for altitude sickness and so far the only sympton was a headache. But it was low-grade and centered over my left eye, not the back of my neck where it better not be (turns out later I realized what the culprit was: Lack of caffeine! I hadn’t had coffee for awhile so it wouldn’t induce the inevitable at 15,000 feet in below freezing conditions. Yes, I’ll take the headache every time). Was I dizzy? No. I was tired as all get-out, having had a hard night’s sleep the night before, but no coughing or heavens, coughing up blood, and no vomiting. I had already quelled my appetite so all systems were go. I monitored my headache and soldiered on.

And then…then I saw people congregating up ahead. Taking off their backpacks and raising their arms. Thorang-La!!!! All 17,769 feet were MINE!! It was bitter cold yet hot on top of the pass, as the sun was bearing down on everyone. It was one of those moments you didn’t want to end so you delayed whenever possible. One trekker was actually smoking a cigarette as his, no doubt, reward. Selfies were taken in front of the sign designating your accomplishment. Group shots were taken and I was reminded of Jodi, my friend who had died from brain cancer last September. My dream of visiting India and ultimately these Himalayas really took hold at the party last Summer celebrating Jodi’s life.

Covering ground in the Annapurna Circuit? Absolute gravy. As I stood at Thorang-La (“La” meaning “Pass”, by the way), I was stunned at the mammoth size and reach of that chain of mountains and felt awe, humility and love. I hugged Sonju, a Danish couple
I’d befriended, a group of Indian IT workers from Chennai, India, anybody and everybody who would take a piece of the Bumble.

I had forgotten this axiom but it’s true: With the realization of most dreams, there comes a price. And of course…