Chasing Mountains: Finding the Divine in the Himalayas

The avalanche comes twice. A snowflake falls, then a rock, another, then more until a great cloud begins to cascade down the mountain. It hits again when the sound reaches my ears. I try and count the seconds that have passed–that’s what I do back home when lightning strikes and I want to know how far the storm is. But up here sound travels slower. Up here, I am 5200 metres above sea level. The air is thin. The avalanche settles at the bottom of a frozen gorge. Prayer flags stir in its wind and I can hear prayer wheels chime holy vibrations far away. It’s more peaceful now than it was before. We gather our bags: we must must go forwards, towards our journey's end. But it feels as though I am trespassing upon the home of the gods.

I am cramped in the back seat. Strapped in tight, backpack upon my knees; canvas bags of lentils and rice pushing up against my back and my knees dent the old flight safety card. Ritesh, my guide is holding his bag beside me as well. Looking to the right I can see a landscape terraformed to accommodate terraced rice fields which dominate the hilly landscape. On the left, a fog hangs over the hills until it is penetrated unnervingly by the mountainous footsteps of the Himalayas. In the same instance, houses and buildings are dots upon the earth while the mountains soar above our propeller plane. Mountains don't fly. But it felt like this ancient rock formation was moving as we flew into its grand chasm like a stunt pilot in a canyon. We clap a well–deserved applause to the pilot who lands us in the world's most dangerous airport.

The journey is steep and silent. Ritesh doesn't speak much, he only mutters mantras behind me. I try to take a swig from my water bladder but it is frozen–my shoelaces are too. I’ve never been this cold. We frequently pass mani stones. Boulders carved with mantras, often: “Om Mani Padme Hum”. Ritesh tells me it is a prayer that is recited over and over to try and connect oneself with the energy surrounding them, but trying to find a literal meaning for it is hard to do. I ask Ritesh what religion he follows. He responds slowly, thoughtfully: ‘Whatever religion you believe. All same path. All same goal.’ In a place like this, the forces of nature make one surrender to the metaphysical to find answers for survival. Spending time at these heights is a form of constant meditation and reflection. I think that is the ultimate power of the mountains–it's the master over life. Like how a dog looks up to their master in reverence I too stand beneath the mountains and ask what's next? 

We push forward and spend or days listening to the one album I have downloaded– Exodus. We sing the words to ‘Jamming.’ Bob Marley is truly a universal experience. Ritesh smiles and says, ‘Bob Marley very holy man.’ 

An avalanche will destroy a city; an earthquake will transform a mountainside; a brutal winter can kill the cattles young. Things need to live in harmony in order to survive. Packs of Himalayan dogs shake the snow off of their fur every morning, and follow travellers on the road begging for biscuits. Women in winter dresses and tassel hats carry baskets full of potatoes–the most beautiful I have ever tried. I am told that the altitude contributes to their sweet flavour, and every meal stop we make, I look forward to more. But long and slow is the way–until two looming figures approach. Destitute souls carrying long steel beams on their backs. So long they must walk hunched. They look thin despite wearing thick down jackets all patched up with tape. As one man passes, he looks into me. His face shows the marks of a lifetime spent in the Himalayas: snowburned and cracked–reddened but smiling. A smile that is wonderful and whole, found in most young children but lost as they grow. He nods: ‘Namaste’. I bow and salute back: ‘Namaste’. They carry construction materials for tourist lodges being built further up the mountain; they will walk the long way, clockwise around each mani stone, same as the direction the universe rotates, and same as the way they have gone since the start of their journey. 

Without the toil of man or animal, there would be no resources on the mountain. It fills me with a solemn respect for everything around me, like the glass windows in my room so I may see crimson pinnacles in the morning. Their burdens bring them just enough money to support their families back down the mountain. Ritesh tells me that they cannot work for many years: they will be injured, or worse before long. Life is simply hard here. But the people still smile, and I think that is the greatest miracle of all.

After walking for as far as we could for one day, we wander around Tengboche. It’s few small dwellings are dwarfed by the golden stupa and gompa at the edge of the village. Monks in sleeveless robes laugh and play football in a forest clearing; the snow is quickening and with it a blanketing silence. We follow one monk barefoot across the central courtyard. The flurry covers the gompa ; its roof seems to join the clouds. I copy Ritesh sitting cross-legged in the grand hall and close my eyes–intermittently at least. I can’t help but gaze upon the thangka, the Tibetan art which covers each inch of spectral wall. Another monk sits in the middle of the room and is chanting. His sound so captivating, containing multitudes. Prayer wheels whip incense plumes until the room is a haze. It feels as though the monk in his drumming is striving to build a bridge towards the divine. Towards Chomolungma, goddess mother. Shiva, destroyer and reshaper. The Buddha. Nirvana. Ohm. 

At 5140 metres elevation, we reach Gorak Shep. Or as Ritesh puts it, ‘Gorak Shit.’ Our boots kick up the grey sand and it floats across this wide field. I can only hear my breath. So heavy now. In the distance, a few buildings are clustered together as though for protection against the loneliness on the surface of the moon. Their doorframes are slanted like pairs of dominoes because we stand on a frozen lake which slowly moves. Ritesh halts, he points and whispers: ‘Bwasho, bwasho.’ A grey wolf walks across the land like a shadow. It looks like it is walking towards something, not close but in the distance. In that wolf I saw myself too: hungry and prowling across the world's vastness towards something. My eyes fill up and burn my snowburnt cheeks. Tomorrow I will see an avalanche in the far distance and stand still. I will reach the arbitrary endpoint of the journey, completing what I set out to do, but I no longer care for this. There is a curious sense of gratitude in my stomach and I am surrounded by the plentitude of all that looks upon me. 

The day came to turn back south towards Lukla, towards home. We followed a frozen river which gradually became wider until it travelled down a steep outcropping. I watched the silent water still flowing under metres of ice crash against rock. The way down is hard and I slip at times–I never trained to go down, only up. The river further expanded into a large valley we had only seen from above in previous days. I could see from this mound I now stood on that the valley grass was red and brown. In spring this valley would fill as far as the eye could see with wildflowers. And there upon that mound I looked upon the icy range and I swear it looked upon me too. It spoke to me in great infrasounds that I could barely understand. It was in that valley that my body failed just a little. My legs buckled and my heart swooned. My eyes glazed and I stood still. Around me lay a fog. A river carved this valley but mountains contained it in an encompassing circle. Their grandeur had been the agent in my paralysis. To be truly in awe of nature, to be rendered useless and pointless to just gaze upon untouched glacier peaks and their foothills–you can feel the divine in this land. Their presence have left a mark.. I feel as though I am saying goodbye and it truly hurts. They will not leave my sight for a long while. Goodbyes cannot be quick in a place like this.