Teachings From a Hill Part 1.

August 3rd, 2013

To be sure, this was no ordinary hill. In fact, most would be correct to call it mountain. Even the clouds must make an effort scrape across the summit, which towers 6140M (over 20,000 ft.) above sea-level. But, what can be learned in attempting to climb such a beast?

As I mentioned in my last post, I recently reconnected with the deep sense of peace and wholeness that comes from an uncommonly simple existence. For weeks on end, I was content to pass the days reading, writing, thinking, and meditating. I could have done anything, but these are activities which I enjoy, and they all fit quite easily into a routine of simplicity. It took nearly a week of this regimen for the benefits to emerge. Gradually, my concerns eroded. What had I been so worried about? Life? It seemed that life was all too easy if I was able to just let it be.

Time passed me by, yet I felt awake in every moment; a passenger on the train of my minds observations. My emotions were light and carefree as thoughts slid across the window of my awareness: “You’re not on the right track to success.” Maybe, but what does that even mean? “Have you noticed those grey hairs sprouting at your temples?” Yep. But, who cares? Life is just the scenery that comes rolling by, and today I’ve an excellent view of my nascent grey hairs. Fantastic.

It’s hard not to get caught up thought; the abstract fashions of the day by which we measure our lives. Stay forever young. Become successful in this way. Befriend these people. But where does the raw material from which we painstakingly construct our ideal lives come from anyhow? From where do we get the ideas of who and what to be? Are those ideas essential to living freely and ethically?

Inside of a few weeks isolation and reflection, I was able to escape all such senseless fantasy making. From time to time I was wholly occupied with whatever it was I was doing. Contentment issued from even the most basic activities – brushing my teeth for example. My mind came to a halt contemplating the temporality of my existence. I realized that, through an incomprehensible turn of events, I am 13.7 billion years in the making. That seems like a lot. I was awestruck at how anxious and concerned I am over the 100 or so years which will hopefully comprise my life.

I also had time to reflect on the last decade of my life – the real meat of my independent existence in the current world. I had basically lived a fairy-tale; one which I could have written for myself, too! However, it wasn’t enough. I always found myself back at the origin, authoring  a new and increasingly outrageous story of becoming something more.

Checking that endless task at the door was a relief. The present moment was more than enough. It’s the only dimension where gratitude can be felt or expressed, and I realized just how much I have to be grateful for. Sure, I felt as if I lost a few moments – or even whole days – to sloth and ennui, but that only meant that I wasn’t paying enough attention. Experience is fractal. The subtler the mind, the greater the magnification of experience. When the depths of boredom and nothingness are probed, one finds a whole universe of experience to be enjoyed. A birds song, a whispering stream, even the hum of distant traffic is replete with the essence of life.

I was content to continue my simplistic existence until a pair of enthusiastic travelers came bounding in to my awareness. As I made my way down the stairs of my guest house, I turned to see a grubby and exuberant pair moving in next door. They broadcast pure joy.

“That was amaaaaaaaaaayzing!” Said a female voice.

“So awesome. So awesome.” Replied a perfunctory, but no less enthused, male.

“Gosh, I’m glad to be back, but I just want to do it again!” Said the woman.

“Me too. Me too.” Agreed the man.

Pots and pans hung from their tattered backpacks, as did sleeping bags and rolled up insulation mats. I deduced that they had just returned from a trek, and tested my hypotheses with the kind of intelligent query we are all too familiar with.

“Just got back from a trek, huh?” I awkwardly interjected.

They turned and, without reflecting on whether or not I was a clairvoyant, confirmed that they had indeed just returned from a wonderful 9-day trek. During the previous two weeks I had hardly uttered more than a hundred words for the purpose of socialization, and was glad when they promptly introduced themselves and invited me to dinner, provided I gave them time to shower first.

Tarin, the Australian woman, and Dominik, the German male, were both excellent travelers. Dominik had spent the better part of the previous two years travelling. He had done a long stint volunteering in Ecuador, and was now closing in on 8 months in India. Tarin was mid-way through a yearlong trip in India and its bordering countries. They had done their recent trek independently, which intrigued me. I have most of the equipment to do a trek, but my biggest obstacle to setting out on my own is, ultimately, simple trust in myself (which includes trusting my ability to fail, and then try again).

Over dinner they gave me some good tips, and more importantly they gave me confidence that I could figure it out as I went. Dominik lent me a detailed guidebook of local treks, and I saw a few I liked. I finally felt like I could manage it, but I was also completely content with my routine. I didn’t feel compelled to do anything. The longer the trip, the less urgent travel seems. Eventually, I decided that trekking could wait. I was happy with what was.

After a day’s rest in Leh, Tarin and Dominik decided to rent motorbikes and head to one of the surrounding salt-lakes for a few days. Upon returning, they planned to do a three day trek up Stok Kangri, a 6140 meter peak visible from my bedroom window, and wanted to know if I wanted to join. I made basic inquiries about cost, required skill, safety, etc. The plan was to go without a guide, as Dominik had done lots of trekking and some mountaineering – including ice climbs. We collectively shrugged our shoulders and decided: why not?

Despite what seemed like an eternally complacent mood, I was also willing to accept a change of pace. I mulled over the few reservations I still had. My primary concern was my knees; mine aren’t the greatest. There have been times when a one hour semi-strenuous walk has diminished me to hobbling for a day or two. However, I have completed a few treks in my day by going slowly and cautiously. I’ve managed to hold off knee problems until the final moments; usually the descent.    

Although Stok Kangri is labeled a trek, depending on the season there are sections where crampons (like a slipper made of metal spikes, which attaches to the bottom of either snow or hiking boots), ice-axe’s, and minor technical skills are required. Dominik – rechristened “Expedition Leader” – was unfazed. He said he’d explain how to use all that when he and Tarin returned from the lakes. Good enough for me!

A few days later they came knocking on my door in the late afternoon. Despite the tardy arrival, we decided to push for departure the following day. We rushed to get our permits in order, and then went to rent the necessary equipment. The shop owner seemed visibly astonished by how little we knew about Stok Kangri. Indeed, I hadn’t taken the time to research the route myself, even though I had planned to do exactly that while Dominik and Tarin we gone. However, from what I had heard, I figured Stok Kangri would be easy enough. 

“No. Definitely not easy. It can be very difficult. But, just keep walking, and you’ll get there.” Quipped the shop owner. Good enough for me!

Tarin and I were outfitted with snow boots which were slightly more comfortable than bricks with laces, and just about as heavy. We each took a pair of crampons, an ice ax, a pair of gloves, and an additional jacket. After renting the equipment we made a dash for the grocery store, and made it just before closing time. We grabbed random snacks, and food to cook as quickly as possible.

The next morning we attempted an early start, but all was slow going. We took a taxi to the town of Stok, and got to the trailhead around 10 am. The destination for the night was Base Camp, a 9 hour hike ascending 1000 meters to a final elevation of 4900 meters. By design, I had only my flip flops and snow boots as footwear to choose from. My plan was to wear the snow boots the whole way up so as to avoid carrying the 5Kg. (10.4lb) clunkers in my backpack. A local man broke down in hysterics when he saw me lacing up. I took the hint, and decided to wear flip flops for the first day.

Departing for base camp we looked like the hobo equivalent of a professional expedition team. I was sporting flip-flops, board shorts, two tan-colored knee braces, and a wheeled backpack stuffed with such essentials as a laptop, a bulky iPhone speaker, and of course my beloved Kindle, for pleasure reading in a low oxygen environment. Tied to the exterior of my backpack were the two large and unwieldy snow boots. They swung like a pendulum, throwing me off balance and kicking me in the ass whenever we came to a stop.  

Tarin displayed a solid black-eye she received a few days prior when her motorcycle helmet made an acquaintance with the tarmac at low speed. As I would soon find out, Tarin has an unsinkable personality. With gashes in her palms, a swelling cheek, and a picture-perfect black eye, she only found cause to smile and laugh – a typical Aussie trait, which Tarin has in spades.

Out fearless yet humble Expedition Leader, Dominik Ze German, was youthful, long haired, and a hippy at heart. He had forgotten to buy a much needed shoelace earlier in the morning, and in his first display of resourcefulness pilfered a garbage for plastic twine to use as a substitute. Dominik was kind enough to lend me the didgeridoo he made in Sri Lanka to use as walking stick, and our quixotic triumvirate set off for the base camp.

We got more than a few stares coming up the mountain. I think my flip-flop, double knee brace, didgeridoo walking stick ensemble raised the most eyebrows. Most people were trekking in organized groups, either ascending or descending with light day-packs, synthetic threads, and alloyed walking sticks which couldn’t carry a tune if they wanted to. As the hired horses which carted their heavy items trotted by, they would often ask where our guide was. Tarin and I simply pointed to Dominik – our Man de la Munich – who looked more prepared to attend a German-Electro-Woodstock than summit a 6100+ meter mountain.

I clearly represented a sad and pathetic future Sancho Panza. Where pots and pans once clanged, I had installed an ass tenderizing metronome of brick-like boots. I’m not sure where Tarin fits in the tale, but suffice it to say that Dominik and I were accompanied by what appeared to a surprisingly cheery, accident prone woman, who was likely marching to her death given the clowns she was following.

A few things now strike me as odd about this situation. First, that all of this is true. Second, that none of this worried me at the time. Third, the complete ABSENCE of drugs and alcohol. Ladakh is a sober state and we kept it that way.

Despite all of this – or more likely because of the delightful absurdity – the first days hike was long, inefficient, whimsical, and full of laughter. We climbed through a beautiful red-walled valley, fording the same modest river as the trail shifted throughout the day. There were yaks to keep us company when other climbers were absent. Mostly, we occupied ourselves vying for the title of Most Talkative Climbers. We mused about philosophy, travel, physics and spirituality, life in our respective countries, the future of humanity, and so on.      

We stopped to cook lunch, and took copious breaks to inhale chocolate bars, refill water, and take in the scenery. We arrived at base camp just before sun-down, although towards the end of the day Dominik raced ahead, and probably beat us there by a solid hour. I arrived exhausted but not dispirited. The arches of my feet were on fire, and I recalled something called plantar fasciitis, a debilitating condition which I nearly gave myself many years prior during another unplanned and dramatic increase in activity which also strained the arches of my feet.  

Dominik helped me set up my tent, and then we all gathered inside the semi-permanent Café tent which serves simple meals, tea, and other basic necessities to the needy at base camp. We got warm and cozy, and downed plate after plate of rice while discussing the mountain with a half-dozen or so other travelers. Some had just come up the mountain; some had made the summit earlier that morning. The question of whether or not we needed a guide still loomed, and we were given conflicting answers. We had 24 more hours to acclimatize, so a definitive answer could wait. For me, the question of whether or not we needed a guide was putting the cart before the horse. The altitude was getting to me, and my the pain in my feet was mounting. All I could think of was getting a good night’s sleep.    

When we departed Leh earlier that morning, I was ambivalent to making it to the summit. I was taking things as they came. If I made the summit, great. If not, also great. Given my finicky knees, I was even prepared to turn back within the first hour should I have needed to. I think the overwhelming lesson of day-1 was the importance of finding a middle ground between meticulous over-preparation, and whatever the hell we did. Sure, we preserved an “in-the-moment” feel, but it would have been nice to have shoes. I was ready and willing to accept any and all consequences for my decisions with grace and equanimity, but that shouldn’t have stopped me from doing a few hours – or even five minutes – research on the peak I was attempting to climb.

Other lessons of the day included new insights into the importance of putting sunscreen on the tops of pasty white feet, especially when wearing flip-flops and hiking for hours on end in a place where the O-Zone layer is a stone’s throw away, and thinning fast. Also, I learned that arch support is critical if you haven’t done any significant physical activity for a while, and suddenly decide to walk for 9 hours shouldering a bag packed suitably for Hercules.

My final lessons of the day came as I went to hunker down in my brand-new tent. I imagine there exists some sort of conventional wisdom about testing your equipment before you use it. However, I had the pleasure of discerning that sage advice all on my own. Unbeknownst to me, I do not own what is commonly referred to as a “4-season” tent. I’m still not sure what conditions my tent is designed for, but what I do know is that camping near the snow-line of a high altitude mountain clearly exceeds its capacity, even during the summer months.

At the narrow end of my tubular tent is a square, mesh window which does not close. At the other end is a thin vent near the top, which also does not close. I hadn’t noticed these features initially, but as night closed in I noticed a distinct breeze – the kind you might expect inside the tunnels of Boeing's Jet Propulsion Laboratory. Artic wind howled though my tent. As I stared wide-eyed at the rapidly flapping ceiling, with my entire face chapping all at once, I began to wonder how bearable the situation might be if I hadn’t made one more critical oversight.

I made a snafu not all that dissimilar from the geniuses who crashed a $400M space-probe into the surface of Mars because someone forgot to convert Imperial units to their metric equivalent. I have purchased sleeping bags in the past, and I know that a “Zero Degree” bag is heavy duty. However, I had not stopped to consider why the “Zero Degree” sleeping bag I purchased in India was so thin and light. Perhaps the eggheads NASA fired had created some new and unfathomable insulating material. I didn’t think to ask.

The answer came to me in a blisteringly cold flash of insight. “Zero Degree” in most of the world refers to Celsius, a measure of temperature which bases its ‘0’ point on the freezing temperature of pure water. “Zero Degree” where I come from – the land where I had purchased all of my previous sleeping bags – refers to Fahrenheit, a measure of temperature that bases its ‘0’ point on the freezing temperature of salt-water. “Oh yeah…” I thought to myself. “So that’s why it feels like I’m dying.”

Proud to have remembered this factoid, I promptly turned over and started doing pushups in order to generate some body heat, and keep Death at bay. I spent the night tossing and turning, occasionally doing leg raisers, or additional pushups when I wanted to feel warm. Needless to say, I didn’t sleep a wink. My head began to hurt from the altitude, and I encountered a few bouts of nausea. As I lay in the fetal position, gasping for what few oxygen molecules there are at 4900M, a smile never left my face. When daybreak finally came, all I could think was “Good God, I love travel!”