Sunday,
November 16
A moment between Pokhara and Muktinath
The higher we got, the slower I went. I learned to use my
two trekking poles to allow my arms to take some of the weight
and help my legs out with the constant climbing. Hour
after hour we trekked through the desolate landscape, which
made me feel very small and far away from everything familiar.
The
blustery cold wind was at our backs, sometimes seeming to
help push us along. It all seemed to take on a very poetic
feeling. As if the trek were moving through one vast temple,
with the ceremonial silences interspersed with sounds of rushing
wind and running water from the creeks we passes, and little
temples by the trail where I could here people chanting and
at other times singing, and below us where there were some
areas of soil, little farms where people invoked the sacraments
of life.
A woman
and a man plowing their field with oxen. The growing of food,
a few green trees in the vast brown vista. The continuity
of life in a world of rock and wind and sky and water and
sun. And the rhythm of the trek, one step then another, arms
and feet, despite the increasing reluctance of the lungs.
More
of this day
The next day
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