By Michael McCarthy
We are at about 17,500 feet, climbing slowly and fading badly when three tiny dots appear like ants on the lunar landscape, far below, moving fast, emerging out of the shadows of the eastern valleys where there are no trails and there should be no people. Half an hour more of excruciating effort and we can make the top of Gandala pass, then it’s down to Upper Dolpo on the Tibetan plateau in this remote corner of northwestern Nepal.
In his classic work The Snow Leopard some thirty years ago, Peter Matthiessen described how he had ventured to this hidden corner of the world, late in the bitter cold of the Nepalese autumn, when deep snow had arrived early in the high western Himalayas, on a spiritual odyssey in search of himself. Today, after the passage of so many seasons, it seems that nothing has changed in Dolpo, except today a blazing sun hammers down from a dazzling diamond sky in a sweltering, pre-monsoon heat of a brief Dolpo summer.
After 10 hours of steady vertical climbing up from our overnight camp in Black Canyon at 12,500 feet, we are now staggering more than walking, sitting longer than staggering, gasping more than breathing. Somehow we have to cross this pass and get down from this deathly height before dark, when either the altitude or the overnight cold will kill us. Lama Tenzin is still leading our party of six, but Tinle and our Tibetan horsemen have already arrived at the top of the pass with all our gear. High above, himself a tiny dot in the distance, Tinle is waving his arms impatiently, signaling us to hurry.
Shuwang is very ill again, nearly blind from the excruciating pain of oxygen deprivation. It doesn’t seem that he can walk much further. Shamchoe has been sitting doen for ages, and even Purpa, the teenage jumping mountain goat, has come down with a severe case of altitude sickness that leaves him moaning as he climbs. I sit on a rock, the lone westerner, struggling with my thoughts, wondering how and when I will ever get on my feet again.
Looking down and to my left, I note the three tiny dots have grown larger and closer and have sprouted legs. Through the zoom lens of my camera I see that they have no horses, and carry no packs. They are bent over and moving fast. I try to think who these creatures may be, but thinking is even harder than breathing. Perhaps they are villagers from Do Tarap, come to pick magic cordycep worms on the highest alpine meadows? But who could be coming from the east, and why so fast?
We squat amid the stones listlessly, trying to summon some last burst of energy to continue our trek, the reasons for which have drifted away into the endless void like wisps of fog. Far above, lost in the roar of the constant wind, we can hear Tinle’s urgent cries: “Alloo! Alay!” But we sit there like condemned men awaiting the executioner, too exhausted to think, let alone move.
The first Maoist arrives. He appears to be the leader, a wicked-looking kukri swinging from his side and a pistol poking from his shoulder bag. Bizarre in this vast wilderness, he is toting a ghetto blaster on his shoulder and whistling to the atonal Tibetan cowboy music blaring from the box. Looking up from my boot, which I have been studying with vague wonder for a long time, I nod and offer the usual salutation between complete strangers passing each other on the path of life.
“Tashi delek.”
Good day to you too, he nods, murmuring in the ancient Sanskrit-like tongue spoken only here in the Land of Dolpo, and continues his march to the summit. Right behind him two cadres doggedly follow, ignoring my pitiful existence and my mumbled greetings. After they pass, I dig feebly into the breast pocket of my parka, pulling out my digital voice recorder.
“Day six. We’ve dodged the Maoists for nearly a week, and now they finally show up, just below the summit. With luck, maybe they will keep going. Looks like they have automatic pistols.”
“Pssst, no. Put away,” whispers Lama urgently, staggering to his feet. “They think you journalist, maybe CIA. Keep camera hide too. Come. We go."
We have discussed the chances of a robbery and are prepared to hand over all our money, but losing the cameras and voice recorder is a different story. Right atop the ridge at nearly 18,000 feet, sitting in the howling fury, we can see the Maoists arguing with Tinle. In the addled mess of my brain I dumbly muse whether there could be any worse place on the planet for a robbery or kidnapping. The money means nothing to me, simply a fee to pay to the cadres of the self-appointed “people’s government” that wander the trails of this poverty stricken nation, robbing whomever they meet. Even the gaunt porters who carry immense loads among the highest mountains on earth, for what is nothing more than a pauper’s pay, are not immune from Maoist dogma and thievery. But I don’t want to be kidnapped.
At Lama’s insistent commands we finally stagger up the ridge ourselves. Black clouds race across the darkening sky. Despite the day’s blazing heat, at this altitude small pockets of snow cling to dark shadows. Bits of stone and dust flung by the relentless wind sting our faces. Lama says something to me, but his voice is as lost in this grievous wilderness as our battered souls. Arriving at the top, I lie on the ground like a dead man, a silent witness to my own hopeless fate, and say nothing.
Here on the ridge top, the wild tableau of the Tibetan plateau to the north finally appears. It’s a panorama I have trudged so far to see, but the Maoists are staring at me closely; I raise my head to look for no more than a second. A blasted landscape of torn and jagged peaks marches off towards a distant gray horizon. As one of the few westerners ever to see it, Matthiessen wrote: “At 17,800 feet this pass is higher than any mountain peak in the entire United States aside from Alaska, but on all sides even mightier peaks reach for the heavens.” It’s an astounding sight, and it is not hard to imagine that somewhere down there among the endless valleys lies the invisible land of Shambala, the center of the universe of which ancient Tibetan scriptures speak. But I fear to look; my heart’s desire is denied. I sit and ruminate on my upcoming fate.
When I first read The Snow Leopard over 20 years ago it never occurred to me that I would ever have an opportunity to travel to such an incredible place. When I met Lama Tenzin in San Francisco, and he first spoke of our trekking together to the almost mythical Land of Dolpo to study the last vestiges of pure Tibetan culture left on earth, it still didn’t occur to me – until the last moment in Kathmandu when we studied the actual trekking route - that I would follow exactly in Matthiessen’s footsteps. But now that I have finally arrived at the very moment, my mind is a blank and self-preservation is my only goal.
Throughout the trek Lama has endeavored to teach me the way, not by words but through example. How to stay “in the moment,” to focus on the goal, to understand that happiness comes from clarity of mind and serenity of soul. That desire is the root of all unhappiness, that kindness and giving to others is the only true path to Nirvana. Yet here I am, at the exact moment of reaching my long awaited goal, and any sort of peace and happiness are denied me. In my befuddled mental state the irony is lost, but subconsciously my soul understands. All desire is illusion. Truly the journey itself is the goal and not the destination.
Tinle, who has been drinking home-brewed chang all day, is having heated words with the Maoists. I learn later, through translation, that these bandits want money from every member of our expedition, they want our cameras and camping equipment. But Tinle is the chieftain of Upper Dolpo, and he will have none of such blatant greed. He knows the Maoist leader, a turncoat from the village of Namdung. The Maoists are thieves, he says, no better than vermin. They should be content with simple highway robbery; how will these visitors to our land survive without their gear? No Tibetan acts in this despicable way. The Maoists cower and say nothing under Tinle’s bluster, but they do not leave.
“Go get the money,” Lama whispers to me. Slowly, without raising my head, I rise to my feet and stumble over to the horses and our gear. The horsemen stand awkwardly, heads down too, saying nothing. They hate the Maoists as well, and look away during this embarrassing transaction. Every man, woman and child in Dolpo believes fervently in reincarnation; robbing guests to your home is the path to hell.
Originally I had hidden the money in several envelopes at the bottom of the pack, but constant sifting through my gear brought exasperation; yesterday I had put all the money together in an outside pocket. Slowly I pull out the envelope and walk back to the group, where I hand the money to Lama. In the screaming wind he somehow counts the rupees, slowly, making a big show of it, and then again. He hands the money to Tinle, who counts the hundred note bills over again, also making a show of it. After several countings, he finally hands the money over to the Maoist captain, who grabs the bills eagerly. In this land of utter destitution, there is more cash in his hand than any honest man might earn in a year.
“Get up and walk back over to the horses again,” whispers Lama to me, with a nod. “Say nothing, but keep going.”
Casually, I get up and stagger slowly back to where the horsemen patiently wait, stoic statues in their tattered clothes and old boots and long hair blowing in the wind. I hear Lama demanding a receipt. Did you count the money? Who has a pen? We will show this receipt to the next Maoists we meet and they must see that we have paid. I turn and look. There is a searching of pockets, and the captain looks for his receipt book. I keep walking, slowly.
Reaching where our horsemen patiently wait, I finally raise my head and cast a long look at the enormous vista lying in front of me. Peak after jagged peak stretches along the horizon towards infinity. Far below, beyond the snow pack guarding the cold northern reaches of this high pass, somewhere lies our destination. Suddenly, two of the horsemen grab me, one by each arm, and we launch ourselves over the ridge like wild birds in flight, leaving the horses behind. With whoops and cries we descend like madmen in gigantic swoops, our boots leaving wild skid marks in the snow, dropping like stones thrown down a deep well.
In what seems only seconds we descend a thousand feet. Turning, I see Lama and Schuwang and Purpa and Samchoe also flying down the slope, whooping and yelling, and Tinle following with the horses. I peer through wisps of mist down into the gathering gloom far below. There is Matthiessen’s magical valley of Shey, and yes, there is the Crystal Mountain itself, and there are the green meadows he described, and the black river running through it, and the hat-like shape of Shey gompa looming in the twilight. Closer, I make out tiny white tents of nomads from the north glistening in the last rays of the setting sun like the teepees of American plains Indians of a few centuries ago.
Matthiessen’s words, long since memorized, come back to mind.
“I am bewitched. The blinding snow peaks and the clarion air, the sound of earth and heaven in the silence, the requiem birds, the mythic beasts, the flags, great horns, and old carved stones, the rough-hewn Tartars in their braids and home-spun boots, the silver ice in the black river, the Crystal Mountain.”
I put my head down again, and start to walk. I am already in heaven.