4-Day All Title Bout: Me vs. Indian Himalayas.
(Manali, India 18:53.28.6.2004)
Day 4: I thought it was over. I thought crossing the icy patch was it. I thought playing cards with the guys meant I was home safe. I thought it was over.
I don’t have the breath for a proper final scream. I had always hoped that a jackal’s instincts would rip through my skin in a life-death situation, tear through the vital threat and deliver me to safety. Instead, it’s with a meek gasp that I quickly utter expletives, names of saints, prophets and superheroes. The bus has skidded on an icy hairpin turn and is tipping over the edge of a cliff. Literally, physically, actually. Instinctively, people shift themselves to the left side of the bus. Failure to correct the imbalance means a vertical drop of a few thousand feet. Should I hop out of the rear exit before impact? Is landing on boulders a better way to die than being mangled in a metallic wreck? Should I roll into a ball? If we all concentrated harder than we ever had and wished for the bus to sprout wings would it happen? If this bus were full of tomatoes instead of local shepherds and farmers, would the spaghetti sauce cushion me to survive? No officers, it’s not blood, it’s Ragu.
In the shadows of the Himalayas, I am on some of the highest roads and passes in the world. I am trying to survive a four-day trek in the mountains. I am only in minute 10 of a 4.5 hour journey back to town when I remind myself that this was the safe alternative.
Traveling to the mountains of northern India during the summer is like the first gulp of ICEE on a grueling drive to Las Vegas with no A/C. It’s manna. The stomach pains, headaches, chaotic transportation and absolute lack of order in central India are foils to the calmness of the mountains, proving that contrast is key to appreciating most things. The gluttonous neon explosion of Las Vegas amid vast desolation. The heights of Himachal Pradesh, rising from the heat.
The massiveness of these mountains can be described in conventional terms. But when you stare up towards the peaks that disappear into the clouds, you’re no longer concerned with meters. Ahh, the sublime consequence of one land mass violently pushing itself into another. The majesty of plate tectonics. One tiny flinch of these mountains can erase a town, can flatten cultures and memories into an indiscernible parenthesis in its own history. The earth moves itself, wholly uninterested with the success of the human legacy.
For days I stared at these mountains from the balcony of Dragon Guest House in Old Manali, taking photos from a safe distance, separated by towns, roads and an apple orchard directly below my room. But there is a difference between idly witnessing the reign of the mountains, and climbing up the throne. To appreciate them, fully, you have to crawl for it. Work for it.
For four days I did, despite initial resistance. I am not feeling strong and my lungs, at these altitudes, resemble – in dimension and efficacy – small deflated balloons. But the alternative was to enjoy the Himalayas via a bus trip farther north to Kashmir, dangerously close to the Pakistani border. Last week, terrorists blew up a tourist bus, killing 40. Days later, a bus flew off a cliff. There is a blatant lack of regulations in India. Transportation is generally uncomfortable and off-schedule but is also, occasionally, life threatening. Activities inherently adventurous, therefore, border on the suicidal. I asked about a paragliding course. The man said, “Well the good news is nobody has died…this year.” So I crossed that off. A four-day trek involved few risks, I thought.
Day 2: The temperature is close to 40 degrees. There is not a single part of my body that is not drenched. How many people can fit in a 3-man tent? Eleven. I am squatting Vietnamese style in one corner, staring into the hems and pant cuffs of fellow trekkers, wondering if their feet are as blistered and frozen as mine. I am in this position for an hour and can no longer feel my legs.
The clouds came up fast during lunch and we had to duck under a boulder, eating boiled eggs and tomato sandwiches until the drenching stopped. It let up just long enough to fool us into thinking we could reach campsite. Grey clouds move quickly, predatorily and one hour later, I am ducking under another boulder. The terrain is flat, though, suitable for a makeshift campsite. But the porters carrying the tents are lost. It is their first time on this trail. Fortunately, another trekking group has joined us and quickly pitch a 3-man tent.
We wait inside.
The other group’s equipment arrives on ponyback. They put up their tents, dig canals around the perimeters to curtail flooding, dive inside and change to dry clothing.
Our porters are still lost.
The guide and cook of the other group invite us to their tent. They pour kerosene in a metal tank, pressurize it, throw a match on the burner and I watch the fire in awe, as if this guide in a pastel beanie with fringes and soaked jeans were Prometheus himself. It is 5,000 years ago, I’m gnawing on a deer leg, icicles forming on my hair and on the tip of my extremely large nose. The guy in front of me strikes the flint stone. The first spark. The first fire. It is the single most important moment in human civilization. Tomorrow, we domesticate animals.
I remove my Ecco boots (which I proudly endorse for their comfort, durability and value) and put my feet across the burner. If I have on piece of dry clothing tomorrow, I will be happy. If I do not freeze to death tonight, I will be happy. If these porters find their way, I will be happy. While my standard of living plummets, the cook and the guide of this other group has boiled water and offers me tea and cookies. My hands and feet warm, regaining their color and senses.
Day 3: From a coach’s “come on legs, you can do it” to the Buddhist “this too, will pass” to the visceral “we will feast on chicken tikka masala when we return to town” to the march from Selma to Washington D.C.’s “we shall overcome” I try every psychological approach to survive. I recall a Eurodance hit to inspire rhythm in my step. I scream. I insult the mountains. Everything helps. Nothing helps. Every tenth step is my last. My tiny deflated balloon lungs are bursting at their seams. I breathe as a yogi, slowly through my nose. The image of a tennis coach flashes. “Jose, what level are you? Slow your breathing. You’re not ready until you’re above level 5.” Coach, I’m off the charts, I’m in the negative. And by the way, I’m still having problems with my forehand volley. I gasp wildly through my mouth as if I’d been thrown on board a ship, having nearly drowned.
It is the last stretch of a 7,600 ft climb. Almost there. Almost there. Hampta Pass is glazed with ice and each step slides back a few inches. Not enough to impede progress, but plenty to demoralize. My biggest fear is sliding all the way down. It’s not about crashing into rocks, but having to reset all of my mind tricks to get me up here again. So I crawl, putting my hands on ice, digging into pony, sheep and goat feces.
The celebration at the apex of Hampta Pass, elevation 13,530 ft., is short lived. The rain clouds are here and we are hit with pea-sized hail. Better than rain, I suppose, smiling, laughing. It’s the lack of oxygen and the assurance from the guide that it’s all downhill from here that makes me hysterical. I’m chomping on a chapatti (think soft taco shell). I can’t feel my fingers. I wiped them on a clump of grass and deemed them clean enough to partake of this feast. I’m coughing up phlegm and snot. It’s the best worst day of my life.
And what a short life it would’ve been. On the rocky descent, I take my sweet time. When will I next be in a valley cut by glaciers? When will I ever see mountains like these? I take photos, throw rocks off cliffs. I pretend I’m a goat, hopping from rock to rock, until my knees rebel. Everybody’s made it down to the valley but me and a Dutch guy. I’m physically retarded; his waterproof shoes broke and has had to manage with slippery sandals.
And then they are screaming. Everybody in the valley, hundreds of feet away. The distance muffles their greeting. The guide is waving frantically with his arms. Alright guys, hi. I’ll be there soon. And then it came. First one rock. And then a couple. And then the thunderous sound of my heart in full panic. Rocks spinning in the air, hurling themselves straight down and then to the right and then to the left. The paths of these large rocks are unpredictable and their speed makes each one – even a tiny pebble – life threatening. One good hit on the noggin will do it. I freeze for a fraction of a moment. Panic requires just an instance to engage, I found out. I run through mud, and poo and over rocks to take cover beneath large boulder.
Better a rock avalanche than a snow avalanche, I thought. In the midst of raining rocks, I’m eager to draw the silver lining. The large boulder is steady, firm. It would take a lot to tumble it onto me. We can wait this out. Almost there. If I make it to my tent tonight, I will be happy. I if I make it drenched, numb and hungry, I will be happy. I fantasize about Day 2.
Day 4: It’s still early in the morning. The sun – which I now worship as a good pagan boy would -- hasn’t entered the valley. With the wind it is below freezing. And yet, I take off my boots. I take off my socks. I roll up my shorts as high as they’ll go. I take deep breaths and enter the river.
We form a chain. I hold the guide’s forearm. The Dutch guy with the sandals (which he doesn’t bother to remove) grabs mine. The water is from the glacier at one end of Spiti Valley. It is colder than any chunk of ice you’ve ever had on your tongue. It is more painful than any ice cream induced brain freeze that’s ever made you cringe. It is like one billion thorns of ice clamping down on your legs, squeezing the blood still. My toes jam into rocks, but I can’t feel them. I cannot feel my feet. The boulders turn into pebbles. The raging current slows to a passive flow. We’ve reached the other side. And we scream.
The guide takes out a towel and beings to dry himself. The Dutch Guy with the sandals has fled and is running down the valley. I’m in disbelief. I poke my calves and feet and toes and am amazed that I can’t feel them. This is how protohumans must have anesthetized themselves. The guide throws me the towel. I put my socks on but cannot feel my toes. I don’t know if one toe is being bent backwards or if one has broken. But we have to go. There is a 9:30 bus to catch.
Almost there, Jose, almost there.
[The following description details five minutes of the worst decision I have ever made. I should’ve said something, but I didn’t. I shouldn’t have done it.]
I have recovered sensation in my feet and we are only thirty minutes from the bus stop. We’ve reached a thirty-foot span of ice that slopes 40 degrees directly into a river that is about 50 feet wide. It is raging with freezing, muddy waters. The surface of the ice is smooth. There is nothing between the ice and the river but a ten-foot drop. I see some dirt patches on the ice and I’m convinced the other group has made it across. Later, I’d find out they hadn’t. They recognized the danger and opted to rock climb above and across the ice.
We form a human chain again. This time, the Dutch guy with the sandals is in the middle. Jam your feet sideways, says the guide. Walk slowly, securely. Each step is a risk I’m unwilling to repeat. There are things worth a bit of danger. Crossing this patch of ice is not one of them. I‘m holding the forearm of the Dutch guy with my right hand. I’m crouched down, stepping slowly, using my left hand to claw into the ice. One slip of one foot of one of us would’ve triggered a disastrous, irreversible chain reaction. Two people couldn’t support the weight of the fallen third. Maybe on firm footing. But not on ice, not with the precarious toehold we were all relying on. Not if we willed it to happen. Gravity will always win. One step. I do not look forward, behind or below. I’m staring at the contours of my boot, the microscopic indentations in the snow. We move one step at a time.
I fantasize about Day 3, about Day 2. If I do not die, well, I’ll be alive and that’s all I’m asking for.
We made it to the bus stop in time, but the bus was full and we spent the next four hours playing cards and trying to keep warm.
The game is Cheaters and this is how it goes. Objective is to get rid of all the cards, which have been equally distributed between me, the Dutch guy with the sandals, the guide, the other group’s guide who fed me tea and cookies two nights before and a man who owns a 4x4. The group that had always been ahead of us hopped onto another bus to another part of the mountains.
I throw two cards on the table, faced down. I say I’ve put down two queens. Next player says he’s putting down one queen. The next says he’s putting down another. The next says he’s putting down another two queens. Who’s lying? If you suspect a player of cheating, you can turn over the cards. If your suspicion proves baseless, then you pick up the stack. If you are correct, though, and sniff out a liar, then he picks up the stack and you determine the value of the next card played.
To say that I’m horrible at the game is a colossal understatement. In my prolific career of deception, it is in these trivial situations that I find lying uncomfortable. I am also psychologically desperate to find cause for levity. In a four day stretch of fearing for your life, you’d be surprised at how the most mundane things can disarm you, can bust your side in unjustified laughter, can bring you to tears, falling over chairs, thanking good god you’re alive to be the ultimate loser for three straight rounds. This, today, is the best worst day of my life.
(Manali, India 18:53.28.6.2004)
Day 4: I thought it was over. I thought crossing the icy patch was it. I thought playing cards with the guys meant I was home safe. I thought it was over.
I don’t have the breath for a proper final scream. I had always hoped that a jackal’s instincts would rip through my skin in a life-death situation, tear through the vital threat and deliver me to safety. Instead, it’s with a meek gasp that I quickly utter expletives, names of saints, prophets and superheroes. The bus has skidded on an icy hairpin turn and is tipping over the edge of a cliff. Literally, physically, actually. Instinctively, people shift themselves to the left side of the bus. Failure to correct the imbalance means a vertical drop of a few thousand feet. Should I hop out of the rear exit before impact? Is landing on boulders a better way to die than being mangled in a metallic wreck? Should I roll into a ball? If we all concentrated harder than we ever had and wished for the bus to sprout wings would it happen? If this bus were full of tomatoes instead of local shepherds and farmers, would the spaghetti sauce cushion me to survive? No officers, it’s not blood, it’s Ragu.
In the shadows of the Himalayas, I am on some of the highest roads and passes in the world. I am trying to survive a four-day trek in the mountains. I am only in minute 10 of a 4.5 hour journey back to town when I remind myself that this was the safe alternative.
Traveling to the mountains of northern India during the summer is like the first gulp of ICEE on a grueling drive to Las Vegas with no A/C. It’s manna. The stomach pains, headaches, chaotic transportation and absolute lack of order in central India are foils to the calmness of the mountains, proving that contrast is key to appreciating most things. The gluttonous neon explosion of Las Vegas amid vast desolation. The heights of Himachal Pradesh, rising from the heat.
The massiveness of these mountains can be described in conventional terms. But when you stare up towards the peaks that disappear into the clouds, you’re no longer concerned with meters. Ahh, the sublime consequence of one land mass violently pushing itself into another. The majesty of plate tectonics. One tiny flinch of these mountains can erase a town, can flatten cultures and memories into an indiscernible parenthesis in its own history. The earth moves itself, wholly uninterested with the success of the human legacy.
For days I stared at these mountains from the balcony of Dragon Guest House in Old Manali, taking photos from a safe distance, separated by towns, roads and an apple orchard directly below my room. But there is a difference between idly witnessing the reign of the mountains, and climbing up the throne. To appreciate them, fully, you have to crawl for it. Work for it.
For four days I did, despite initial resistance. I am not feeling strong and my lungs, at these altitudes, resemble – in dimension and efficacy – small deflated balloons. But the alternative was to enjoy the Himalayas via a bus trip farther north to Kashmir, dangerously close to the Pakistani border. Last week, terrorists blew up a tourist bus, killing 40. Days later, a bus flew off a cliff. There is a blatant lack of regulations in India. Transportation is generally uncomfortable and off-schedule but is also, occasionally, life threatening. Activities inherently adventurous, therefore, border on the suicidal. I asked about a paragliding course. The man said, “Well the good news is nobody has died…this year.” So I crossed that off. A four-day trek involved few risks, I thought.
Day 2: The temperature is close to 40 degrees. There is not a single part of my body that is not drenched. How many people can fit in a 3-man tent? Eleven. I am squatting Vietnamese style in one corner, staring into the hems and pant cuffs of fellow trekkers, wondering if their feet are as blistered and frozen as mine. I am in this position for an hour and can no longer feel my legs.
The clouds came up fast during lunch and we had to duck under a boulder, eating boiled eggs and tomato sandwiches until the drenching stopped. It let up just long enough to fool us into thinking we could reach campsite. Grey clouds move quickly, predatorily and one hour later, I am ducking under another boulder. The terrain is flat, though, suitable for a makeshift campsite. But the porters carrying the tents are lost. It is their first time on this trail. Fortunately, another trekking group has joined us and quickly pitch a 3-man tent.
We wait inside.
The other group’s equipment arrives on ponyback. They put up their tents, dig canals around the perimeters to curtail flooding, dive inside and change to dry clothing.
Our porters are still lost.
The guide and cook of the other group invite us to their tent. They pour kerosene in a metal tank, pressurize it, throw a match on the burner and I watch the fire in awe, as if this guide in a pastel beanie with fringes and soaked jeans were Prometheus himself. It is 5,000 years ago, I’m gnawing on a deer leg, icicles forming on my hair and on the tip of my extremely large nose. The guy in front of me strikes the flint stone. The first spark. The first fire. It is the single most important moment in human civilization. Tomorrow, we domesticate animals.
I remove my Ecco boots (which I proudly endorse for their comfort, durability and value) and put my feet across the burner. If I have on piece of dry clothing tomorrow, I will be happy. If I do not freeze to death tonight, I will be happy. If these porters find their way, I will be happy. While my standard of living plummets, the cook and the guide of this other group has boiled water and offers me tea and cookies. My hands and feet warm, regaining their color and senses.
Day 3: From a coach’s “come on legs, you can do it” to the Buddhist “this too, will pass” to the visceral “we will feast on chicken tikka masala when we return to town” to the march from Selma to Washington D.C.’s “we shall overcome” I try every psychological approach to survive. I recall a Eurodance hit to inspire rhythm in my step. I scream. I insult the mountains. Everything helps. Nothing helps. Every tenth step is my last. My tiny deflated balloon lungs are bursting at their seams. I breathe as a yogi, slowly through my nose. The image of a tennis coach flashes. “Jose, what level are you? Slow your breathing. You’re not ready until you’re above level 5.” Coach, I’m off the charts, I’m in the negative. And by the way, I’m still having problems with my forehand volley. I gasp wildly through my mouth as if I’d been thrown on board a ship, having nearly drowned.
It is the last stretch of a 7,600 ft climb. Almost there. Almost there. Hampta Pass is glazed with ice and each step slides back a few inches. Not enough to impede progress, but plenty to demoralize. My biggest fear is sliding all the way down. It’s not about crashing into rocks, but having to reset all of my mind tricks to get me up here again. So I crawl, putting my hands on ice, digging into pony, sheep and goat feces.
The celebration at the apex of Hampta Pass, elevation 13,530 ft., is short lived. The rain clouds are here and we are hit with pea-sized hail. Better than rain, I suppose, smiling, laughing. It’s the lack of oxygen and the assurance from the guide that it’s all downhill from here that makes me hysterical. I’m chomping on a chapatti (think soft taco shell). I can’t feel my fingers. I wiped them on a clump of grass and deemed them clean enough to partake of this feast. I’m coughing up phlegm and snot. It’s the best worst day of my life.
And what a short life it would’ve been. On the rocky descent, I take my sweet time. When will I next be in a valley cut by glaciers? When will I ever see mountains like these? I take photos, throw rocks off cliffs. I pretend I’m a goat, hopping from rock to rock, until my knees rebel. Everybody’s made it down to the valley but me and a Dutch guy. I’m physically retarded; his waterproof shoes broke and has had to manage with slippery sandals.
And then they are screaming. Everybody in the valley, hundreds of feet away. The distance muffles their greeting. The guide is waving frantically with his arms. Alright guys, hi. I’ll be there soon. And then it came. First one rock. And then a couple. And then the thunderous sound of my heart in full panic. Rocks spinning in the air, hurling themselves straight down and then to the right and then to the left. The paths of these large rocks are unpredictable and their speed makes each one – even a tiny pebble – life threatening. One good hit on the noggin will do it. I freeze for a fraction of a moment. Panic requires just an instance to engage, I found out. I run through mud, and poo and over rocks to take cover beneath large boulder.
Better a rock avalanche than a snow avalanche, I thought. In the midst of raining rocks, I’m eager to draw the silver lining. The large boulder is steady, firm. It would take a lot to tumble it onto me. We can wait this out. Almost there. If I make it to my tent tonight, I will be happy. I if I make it drenched, numb and hungry, I will be happy. I fantasize about Day 2.
Day 4: It’s still early in the morning. The sun – which I now worship as a good pagan boy would -- hasn’t entered the valley. With the wind it is below freezing. And yet, I take off my boots. I take off my socks. I roll up my shorts as high as they’ll go. I take deep breaths and enter the river.
We form a chain. I hold the guide’s forearm. The Dutch guy with the sandals (which he doesn’t bother to remove) grabs mine. The water is from the glacier at one end of Spiti Valley. It is colder than any chunk of ice you’ve ever had on your tongue. It is more painful than any ice cream induced brain freeze that’s ever made you cringe. It is like one billion thorns of ice clamping down on your legs, squeezing the blood still. My toes jam into rocks, but I can’t feel them. I cannot feel my feet. The boulders turn into pebbles. The raging current slows to a passive flow. We’ve reached the other side. And we scream.
The guide takes out a towel and beings to dry himself. The Dutch Guy with the sandals has fled and is running down the valley. I’m in disbelief. I poke my calves and feet and toes and am amazed that I can’t feel them. This is how protohumans must have anesthetized themselves. The guide throws me the towel. I put my socks on but cannot feel my toes. I don’t know if one toe is being bent backwards or if one has broken. But we have to go. There is a 9:30 bus to catch.
Almost there, Jose, almost there.
[The following description details five minutes of the worst decision I have ever made. I should’ve said something, but I didn’t. I shouldn’t have done it.]
I have recovered sensation in my feet and we are only thirty minutes from the bus stop. We’ve reached a thirty-foot span of ice that slopes 40 degrees directly into a river that is about 50 feet wide. It is raging with freezing, muddy waters. The surface of the ice is smooth. There is nothing between the ice and the river but a ten-foot drop. I see some dirt patches on the ice and I’m convinced the other group has made it across. Later, I’d find out they hadn’t. They recognized the danger and opted to rock climb above and across the ice.
We form a human chain again. This time, the Dutch guy with the sandals is in the middle. Jam your feet sideways, says the guide. Walk slowly, securely. Each step is a risk I’m unwilling to repeat. There are things worth a bit of danger. Crossing this patch of ice is not one of them. I‘m holding the forearm of the Dutch guy with my right hand. I’m crouched down, stepping slowly, using my left hand to claw into the ice. One slip of one foot of one of us would’ve triggered a disastrous, irreversible chain reaction. Two people couldn’t support the weight of the fallen third. Maybe on firm footing. But not on ice, not with the precarious toehold we were all relying on. Not if we willed it to happen. Gravity will always win. One step. I do not look forward, behind or below. I’m staring at the contours of my boot, the microscopic indentations in the snow. We move one step at a time.
I fantasize about Day 3, about Day 2. If I do not die, well, I’ll be alive and that’s all I’m asking for.
We made it to the bus stop in time, but the bus was full and we spent the next four hours playing cards and trying to keep warm.
The game is Cheaters and this is how it goes. Objective is to get rid of all the cards, which have been equally distributed between me, the Dutch guy with the sandals, the guide, the other group’s guide who fed me tea and cookies two nights before and a man who owns a 4x4. The group that had always been ahead of us hopped onto another bus to another part of the mountains.
I throw two cards on the table, faced down. I say I’ve put down two queens. Next player says he’s putting down one queen. The next says he’s putting down another. The next says he’s putting down another two queens. Who’s lying? If you suspect a player of cheating, you can turn over the cards. If your suspicion proves baseless, then you pick up the stack. If you are correct, though, and sniff out a liar, then he picks up the stack and you determine the value of the next card played.
To say that I’m horrible at the game is a colossal understatement. In my prolific career of deception, it is in these trivial situations that I find lying uncomfortable. I am also psychologically desperate to find cause for levity. In a four day stretch of fearing for your life, you’d be surprised at how the most mundane things can disarm you, can bust your side in unjustified laughter, can bring you to tears, falling over chairs, thanking good god you’re alive to be the ultimate loser for three straight rounds. This, today, is the best worst day of my life.
