After meeting god in the mountains in South America, I was about to meet the god of all mountains.
But first, let's go back to a year after my South America trip, when I'd quit another job to go to Asia.
The rainbow gathering
Shortly after a stint in Thailand, I went to Nepal with the primary intention of attending a rainbow gathering. For those who don't know, a rainbow gathering is a big off-the-grid hippy meetup that runs for a month in the jungle, in various places around the world, all year round. It seemed like a peak hippy experience, following my love of Shambhala festival in northern Thailand.
I attended for 10 of the full 28 days, missing the full moon. Despite my love of Shambhala, which completely changed my perspective on music, the rainbow fell flat for me. It just seemed a little too chaotic, and maybe I wasn't ready for it. Still, the rainbow hippies were incredibly friendly, and I found it hard to part ways with them even after the gathering ended. We all travelled to Pokhara together, where I spent a couple of weeks in what felt like limbo. I was grieving leaving Thailand, a country I loved, and having said no to a friend's offer to do a bike trip through Vietnam, all in search of greater "enlightenment" experiences with the hippies.
Annapurna
Man, this Nepal trip was turning out to be a real pain in the ass.
I was determined to make something meaningful of Nepal, so I decided to tick off a travel bucket list item: the Annapurna trek. Annapurna is an 8,000+m mountain range in the Himalayas, a famous backpacker to-do because of the incredible hike through it, where you see some truly majestic mountains. I extended my visa at the Pokhara immigration office, paid the fee so I could finish the trek within my visa limits, and set off the next day.
I felt like I'd messed up my timing once again: the first few days sucked. The weather was bad, and I had a terrible pain in my foot. I was so tempted to turn back, but I'd already missed the bike trip with my friend and was miserable in another country, so I needed to make something of it. I was overtaking everyone I passed; I was a fast hiker in those days. With the poor weather early on, it all felt like a pure test of physical endurance, with no beauty-inspired awe. On the third night I knew the guesthouse was sitting at the base of Annapurna II, but I couldn't even see it through the clouds. Man, this Nepal trip was turning out to be a real pain in the ass.
Thank the lord, the next day brought clear skies and a great view of the mountain. It all seemed grand, I had a good feeling the weather might hold for the rest of the trek, and my spirits lifted. Before setting off, I went to the local store to buy a cig (I wouldn't generally recommend smoking while trekking in the Himalayas, just FYI). I finished it standing on the store steps, and on my way down I realised I'd injured my knee. Yay... it didn't stop me continuing. If I could do the send in Chile, I could at least try to go on.
The knee got worse. From Upper Pisang to Ghyaru I was in great pain. It was debilitating. I was on a diet of energy drinks and ibuprofen. Thankfully, on arrival in Ghyaru I bumped into some great guys who'd accompany me for the next couple of days. I forget one of their names, though I'd actually met him in Pai, Thailand, but the other was Bennett, who was doing the whole trek barefoot with an 80-litre backpack! Now that's the kind of trekking partner you want when you're thinking of pussying out on a bad knee 😅. We stayed in Ghyaru a couple of nights in the hope I'd recuperate and to take in the range, all within our cosy little Tibetan Buddhist village, complete with a stupa and prayer wheel.
Manang
A lasting reassurance that I deserve peace and that I have my place here.
We all hiked towards Manang, the centre point of the classic trek and the last road-accessible town (and thus my last chance to turn back safely). One of the guys had lent me a knee pad and a walking pole. As we walked, Bennett asked me directly: "What do they mean when they say Om Mani Padme Hum?" Virtually a Buddhist by this point, I knew it was the compassion mantra of Tibetan Buddhism. I replied with a witty joke anyway: "Ah well, you see, it's because I injured my knee. They're saying 'Ow, my knee. Pad me [give me a knee pad]. Hum!'" They all laughed. I'd meant it as a joke, but it seemed to develop a meaning for me all on its own.
I got to Manang alone, the others having stopped in the town before it. I wanted to make haste while my spirits were up, knowing I could spend a few days somewhere more developed to eat and rest well. I arrived in the evening, once again with visibility of the range leaving something to be desired. I found a nice little hotel with a room right opposite Gangapurna, which would become my favourite sight on the whole trek. It was funny, given the name Gangapurna: when I arrived I told the young guy who owned the place about my ailment, and he offered me a bunch of weed for free. Though I didn't usually smoke weed, I took heed of the omen and smoked a fair amount. It seemed apt, facing Gangapurna, aka Ganjapurna.
The sunrise the next day was astounding. In some ways it was even more beautiful than Fitz Roy, thanks to the sheer Himalayan scale of it: a massive mountain with a valley running right down from the top, ending in a glacial lake at the bottom. I stayed in Manang for four days, not just because of the knee but because it was truly awe-inspiring. There was what looked like an old oak tree at a perfectly positioned viewpoint facing the mountain. Every day I'd go there, smoke a little ganja and meditate, watching life go by in the middle of nowhere, prayer flags waving in the wind, looking at the beautiful mountain. The cherry on top was the cool little chill-out room at the top of the hotel, which had a couple of guitars, so each evening I'd sit and play and hang out with the owner, his girlfriend and his big old dog. We even celebrated Bennett's 30th birthday there, which he later thanked me for, since I was the only other person he knew in town at the time.
During that whole pause in Manang, the joke I'd made about the mantra kept echoing in my mind. It's the compassion mantra, of course, and the Buddhist idea of compassion is that all sentient beings should be relieved of their suffering. It seemed so fitting that the joke itself, "Ow, my knee! Pad me! Hum!", came from an act of compassion: someone lending me a knee pad. It was as if those four days in Manang, where I deliberately took time to myself to meditate and appreciate nature, were the Buddha spirit giving me compassion for what had felt like a misfired trek, and a misfired trip. The "Hum" also took on a meaning of its own, since I was able to play music every evening. I still think about the peace I felt sitting by that tree in the Himalayas whenever I hear that mantra. Above all, it gives me a lasting reassurance that I deserve peace and that I have my place here. It turned out to be exactly what I was looking for.
Too fast
When the four days were up, I mustered the courage to continue. I bought my own robust knee pads, a couple of walking sticks and more ibuprofen. I went alone, knowing I could hold up any companion, but also sensing I might find my strength and trek fast. I did. I was overtaking everyone once again, on a bad knee.
Over the next few days I moved through the range, stopping for the occasional yak burger and fries at villages en route; during my travelling days I'd all but abandoned my vegan inclination.
I finally made it to the penultimate stop after what was a crazy send. I could have stopped more often, but I had a crazy spirit about me for having "overcome" my knee problem, though it still hurt. I guess I pushed myself too far. That night I got terrible altitude sickness, resting at 5,200 metres, with awful stomach pains like nothing I'd ever experienced. It was a lesson to take it easy: I'd walked straight past the town where the Manang hotel owner's brother had his own little spot with a nice setup. It was too late to turn back. I was forced to rest there a couple of nights, and in the meantime I hiked up to a little viewpoint to get my last glimpse of the range before heading over the pass.
It was a strange feeling, sitting there looking at the range. I was at about a hundred metres above camp at the viewpoint, and I felt like the energy of the whole experience could have killed me. I don't mean that literally, through exhaustion or whatever. I mean the divinity of the Himalayas was killing my ego in a big way, though perhaps the hardship of the trek contributed. It was so much that I had to walk back down; I was worried I'd jump off or fall, despite being in a reasonable mental state.
Thorong La
I decided it was now or never.
After some questionably efficient rest, I decided it was now or never. I didn't want to spend another night up there, turning back would take longer, and I knew how close I was to finishing. So I went over Thorong La at 5,400 metres with Bennett in my mind, knowing he was doing it barefoot, which gave me encouragement.
As I walked down from the top of the pass to Muktinath, the pain got so much worse. The descent from 5,400 metres to 3,800, about 1,600 metres, would take a few hours. That's pretty steep, and going down on a bad knee is excruciating.
Back with the hippies
By the time I made it down, I felt some peace for having completed it... but that was short-lived. I bumped straight into some of the rainbow gang, literally the first travellers I saw. For the record, I had no beef with them; I was just hoping to spend some time alone, and knowing how much I'd struggled to part ways with them in Pokhara, it just seemed funny.
In the end I appreciated their company. After all, they were fellow spiritual seekers like me. We stopped in a cafe where we all shared a room in the back for a few nights. I saw a sticker on the wall for the "Mount Kailash Kora" in Tibet and pointed it out. Being in that sphere, we all knew about Mount Kailash. I'd first heard of it back in Thailand, when one of my hippy friends told me it was the crown chakra of the earth. They all spoke of it reverently, as a true spiritual accomplishment to visit. I told myself that no matter what, one day I would go.