Chapter 11


Edge

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^ ^ ^ ^

The brain is no more coextensive with consciousness
than the edge is with the knife.
Henri Bergson

 

Departures have punctuated my life, the past year being one great black hole of a period, a departure from myself, or at least the attempt to do so. But it was more than the ending of a sentence, paragraph or even a chapter. It was the story of Guy I wanted to end. I had tried to do it on that beach near Encinitas, but nothing came of it. So I had taken a more measured course, slowly closing down all ties that made me who I was. Admittedly, these were few, for I had started late, perhaps too late. Yet they were the only things that held me to the life I knew as Guy. In Japan, I hadn’t even made an attempt to reconnect, except, of course for that feeble interlude with Elizabeth. I was in transit! Elizabeth sensed this "butterfly" quality.

The road had brought me to Darcha; the first great pass lay ahead. Would I put the final period to my story, or continue on in never-quite-ending ellipse? As long as I could move, changing the scene, observing rather than acting, I was content.

I continued to shed my possessions and, in the doing, that self who those possessions defined. At Darcha, I believed I was on that true edge; from there on, terra incognito, not only of the land but also of mind.

Emerging from the tent, I saw my crew. How strange that I had put myself at the mercy of such young men. Gul was by far the oldest, the other three still in their teens. The ponies were otherwise, for with the exception of Yosh’s that was almost a foal, they looked as if this might be their last journey. I kept thinking, Why am I taking this circus with me. I knew I didn’t need all the saman, particularly considering all the others to take care of the saman, in turn requiring more saman to take care of the saman-carriers. Of course the locals made this journey all the time, like you or I might go to the supermarket. They would just get up and go. But in my head, I had built this up to be a big trip, and as a slave to material culture, I had to carry all of it with me.

After much raucous haggling among the pony-walas over the loading, each one trying to get the lightest load for his pony, we were ready. Yosh was particularly insistent. Now that the contract was assured, he wanted to spare his prize any undue hardship.

Despite the hassles, this was always my greatest moment—leaving it all behind, the open, unknown road ahead. I set off eagerly, even though I knew time was finite, there was still some left. Though I had already forgotten much of my dream, the enigma of Mara remained. Sphinx-like, this shape-changing specter posed the riddle of existence, a riddle I must confront and solve, if I was to bring closure to Guy.

"Okay, Dad all set. Chalo! Chalo?"

I’m going to have to deal with this ‘Dad’ shit sooner or latter, I thought angrily. Why does there always have to be something, some fuck-faced fly buzzing around, blowing the old wah into a million pieces.

That day, even such a persistent annoyance could not spoil my joy for long. We were finally underway, free and clear, self-contained. It had been almost three months since I had committed to this journey. By force of will, I had nurtured the trek from a faint, mirage-like dream, making it survive, not allowing it to disappear into a nothingness of fantasy—as had so many of my plans. The first steps into this new reality led up the Barai Nala.

The temperature was rising; I knew it would soon be oppressively hot. Now well over eleven thousand feet, the thin air provided little insulation. Quite literally, we were entering the sky. During the day, the hot, mid-August sun scorched all that it touched, particularly attacking the sensitive skin of those accustomed to the denser, insulating atmospheres. Yet as soon as the sun set, or went behind the occasional monsoon-born clouds, the air chilled. On that day there were no clouds, and the sun beat down with its full fury. I came well prepared with sunscreen, glacier glasses, hats; but despite these protections, I would soon bear scars testifying to the strength of the ultra-violet. No wonder the local people were dark. Although a good part of the year found them holed up in their fortress-like houses, retreating against the cold to an innermost room, the intensity of the sun, even for so brief a period as the Himalayan summer, favored dark skin for survival.

The sun also worked the land, turning loose soil into fine dust. This intrusive substance quickly coated every surface, penetrating all but the tightest seals. In the beginning, I tried to protect my photo gear, but very soon a sense of futility, coupled with the lethargy that is endemic at such altitudes, put aside fastidiousness. It always surprised me how well my photos turned out, even in these harsh conditions—where the only thing was to use your bandanna, or finger, to wipe the layer of dust that coats your lens. I had gone through many filters, but my lenses endured.

Initially, the trail was steep until it joined a jeep track, gradually being scratched out of the nala’s steep northeastern slope. Pal reported that one day it would cross the pass and extend all the way to Padam—"Insha’Allah" said Gul with a touch of mocking incredulity. Ahead, on the way to the top of the Shingo-la, we would climb another vertical mile. My lungs ached unaccustomed, as they were, to such altitudes. I knew this could be serious business. Acute mountain sickness or even pulmonary edema, scourges of mountaineers and trekking expeditions, randomly preyed at these heights. Despite all my preconditioning in Japan, either of these high elevation illnesses might strike. I had seen the ravages on earlier expeditions where some of the most fit had been struck, while others, older and much less fit, escaped.

^ ^ ^

There was that time on Tirich Mir in Chitral. It was one of those R and R things that kept me going during Nam; when was it? I am not really certain of the year, for sure it was in the autumn. I was climbing with some Italians met down in the bazaar. Nothing fancy, just pick-up and go. We weren’t really thinking of getting to the top—this was already becoming my style. Besides, that mountain is a real bitch. Not that it didn’t warn you. From the safety of the Tirich View Hotel, I had clearly seen Death. The mountain appeared like one great human skull, cavernous sockets gazing sightlessly toward the sky. At the time, I only thought it was the acid…but then why did I later see the same specter in my photographs?.

We had worked our way up, what our maps called the Lower Tirich Glacier, making camp at the foot of Tirich’s huge northern wall at about seventeen thousand feet. The main peak of that ogre rose almost straight above us, a vertical mile of sheer ice and rock. It was a monster, but a fascinating one. In retrospect, though I didn’t know it at the time, Mara must have lingered there. Had this land not been once under Dharma’s rule? We hung out for a couple of days, just looking around, trying to figure a way up that wall, trying to squirrel up our courage. I had my own tent, and the two Italians shared another.

About five in the morning…I will never forget it…the light was just coming up, striking the tops of the western faces above us, turning them to fire. We were right in the middle of a nest of peaks…incredible…like nestling in the cup of a God’s hand or, maybe, claw. One of the Italians rousted me, saying his partner wasn’t feeling too well. We were all young and inexperienced, not really mountaineers, just city boys out for adventure. For more than a day the Italian had suffered from a severe cough. At first we thought it was just a cold. City boy or not, this guy was buffed.

When I went to his tent, I saw he was in a bad way, breathing rapidly, unevenly, shallowly, not sucking in enough oxygen. Even through the thick cover of his down bag you could hear his heart beating. Incredible how quiet it was excepting for that heart, "ump, ump, ump." This sound, and the breathing noises, just took over. I say breathing noises because, besides the gasping, an ominous gurgle came from his chest every time he breathed. He was barely conscious, just enough to be scared. His friend was even more scared. As the light came up, I could see he was turning blue. By then I had seen a lot of death in Nam, but it was…I guess the best way to describe it would be…hot death; you know, violent, passionate—those that didn’t buy it quickly got hauled away. You didn’t have to watch the struggle. Here, it was something different. It was cold, incremental, without any passion, just creeping up slowly. The dude was turning blue. He was still alive, but a steely gray-blue.

We didn’t know what was wrong. If we had, we would have carried him down to a lower altitude. Even at that late stage, he might have survived. But we didn’t know. Instead we just sat there, hoping he would get better, trying to get him to drink chai, his friend giving him antibiotics…thinking he had pneumonia. Well, he didn’t; he had pulmonary edema and drowned in the shit his own lungs produced. Yeah, he bought it.

At the time I thought, here I came all this way to escape death, and still I am in the middle of it. We weren’t doing anything that we thought dangerous, just tourists playing mountain climbers—of course, that is the most dangerous thing of all.

^ ^ ^

I could feel the exertion taxing my body, and I made a mental self-examination, looking for the tell-tale signs. When I was younger…no, when I was young…I never had any real trouble, maybe some sleeplessness, maybe a headache. Now I was old, and with each leaden step, I felt that much older. How would my body react at 17,000 feet? That question plagued me.

Yes, the altitude was making itself known. True, I had been sitting on my ass for the past week, a couple of days lying on it, but the weakness felt during the steep climb to the road was more than expected. Part was the altitude, but part, I knew, was from the enormity of the adventure ahead. The dream had firmly planted Mara’s specter in my waking mind. Oh, the details and their meanings were obscure, but I knew I would meet this shape-changer again, that, no matter in what form, this specter would be waiting…above. This thought was enough to tire anyone. I had to get strong; I had to have all my strength to be certain that now was the time…my time.

Equilibrium returned on reaching the road. The ponies stretched out behind, their presence marked by jingling harness bells, the low "uuusht, uuusht," that cry of man to animal ubiquitous in this part of the world. Here along this easy roadway, the tone of the "uuusht" was reassuring, saying "you’re doing fine, keep it up, move along." Later it would take on other, more urgent meanings. The nala, at first a deep-sided gorge, broadened, offering space for a few meager fields, willow trees, and boxy adobe dwellings. Yet these vestiges of human habitation were overshadowed by the mountains’ immensity. Here, humans had sprinkled their sign on an otherwise barren sea of rock, a sea that lifted on either side into enormous waves capped in icy crests. This was truly a masculine world, not only in its Freudian verticality, but also in its hardness, its rawness, and its sheer domination. The great mountains, scored so deeply by the Barai and countless feeder streams, shared life grudgingly with intruders. With a growing feel for the topography, I could see the land rise like stairs before me. As if I was looking at a map, I saw myself as a tiny figure far below, winding my way upward. Upward, I wryly thought, to nowhere, yet to everywhere, to nonexistence, Mara’s true domain.

Abruptly we came to the end of the road. Before us lay an area of landslide. Nepali coolies languidly chipped away at the rocky earth in an attempt to resurrect the trail. After only a few hours of travel, we faced a major obstacle, a test for the heavy-laden ponies. We were at the first of many such junctures, where a misplaced footstep meant a disastrous end to the adventure. While there was footing for humans, it was questionable whether the ponies could get across. The hillside was steep, perhaps seventy-five to eighty degrees. A great piece had fallen into the rush of the Barai many hundreds of feet below. To slip was to tumble over a rocky precipice into the rage of this muddy torrent—to fall was to die. Pal went ahead to scout the trail.

"Sahib, trail this wide," reported Pal holding his hands about three inches apart. Thank God, he hasn’t gotten into the "Dad" trip, was my first thought, but quickly I shifted focus to my real problem.

"Can the ponies can make it?"

"Not know Sahib. Before trail pukkah. Coolies say trail kherab last night. We try Sahib. Taking down saman from ponies , then try."

The ponies were getting a little antsy. They sensed something was very wrong; they were about to be forced to do something, which from their perspective was highly irrational. But despite their superior grasp of the situation, the ponies were destined to succumb, for their fate wasn’t theirs. The boys began to unload them, an operation the ponies unwittingly welcomed. Then, like the condemned going to inescapable gallows, they were led, one by one, across the precipitous trail. The operation went smoothly at first. Among the four ponies, as with their human counterparts, there was a pecking order, roughly approximating their age. The oldest and most stable went first. His passage without incident helped reassure the next to follow.

Those ponies weren’t wimps. As mangy and scraggly as they looked—we are talking glue factory here—they were tough, real trekkers. It was only when the last one, the youngest, started across that trouble came. She was little more than a foal, maybe a year at the most—they were all so small that it was hard to tell. She was along to learn the ropes and to be with her mother. Pal had her lead and Yosh was holding on to her tail just in case. It was a good thing too, because just as she reached the halfway point, she freaked and shook Pal off. Then she started to turn back, only to lose her footing. Desperately she fought to regain it, Yosh holding on to her tail for dear life. Pal, seeing what was happening, slid down a little way—remember what was below—but these guys were only thinking of the pony. How were they going to explain to the family that they had lost her? I don’t really know how long the struggle went—it seemed forever. The pony was screaming, struggling, but unable to regain her footing. The two boys continued to fight with all their strength. Below, the river was rumbling with a patient anticipation, waiting for all three to come tumbling down. After what seemed forever, they got the pony under control. It was a good thing the pony was so small, because they finally muscled her up onto the path and literally pushed her across.

Throughout the whole event I held back, camera in hand, shooting a rapid sequence of the near disaster, heart in my throat, knowing I must let the pony-walas handle their own business; it would have shamed them had Sahib been forced to interfere. Yet I was irritated that Gul refused to get involved. He walked blithely to the other side of the slide, then sat down on a convenient boulder to watch what might happen, as if none of this was his concern. Perhaps, it was a case of Insha’Allah, but it was almost as if Gul was enjoying the show. "Dad" hadn’t taken his advice. "Dad" had used other pony-walas. Now, anything that happened was "Dad’s" responsibility.

The rest of the day we climbed the nala. The way was clear, although now it was distinctly a trail, passable only to foot and hoof: men, ponies, yaks, and the frequent herds of sheep and goats. We met many of the latter as there was only one human use for such high nalas. Among the rocks and ice lay patches of luxuriant grass, for which the flocks traveled great distances to enjoy. Though to the uninitiated this seemed a wild, uninhabited place, to the Gaddis who summered here it was well defined, each pasture belonging to families whose rights might have stood unchallenged for generations. Unchallenged that is except by the cancerous defoliation caused by their vast herds.

Traveling up valley, we passed through many huge flocks. It was nearing the end of the season; another few weeks and they would begin the journey down, crossing the Rohtang out of the high valley pastures of Lahaul. Some would winter in the milder climate of Kulu, while others would travel farther to the Plains.

It was a good, simple life, disconnected from the cares of those permanently planted—to the earth, village, town, or city. These shepherds live apart, and as the other, the outsiders, they garner a dubious reputation. However, in the brief encounters I had with them, taking shelter in their camps; trading for meat, cheese, and curd; employing them as guides or porters, they had always proven honest and forthright. They reminded me how easily evil is ascribed to the unknown, to cultures different from our own. Human failings are the same, even in the Himalaya.

That night we halted near a Gaddis’ camp. While I waited for Gul to perform his culinary wonders, dal-bhaat and a fiery vegetable curry, I lay back, trying to absorb my surroundings. As always when first beginning an adventure my threshold to wonder was low. I was unaccustomed to this vertical world. My eyes wandered hungrily over the ridgelines towering above. My mind began to let go. As I released my grip on intention, imagination reasserted itself. In the fantastic shapes of the crags, I understood why shepherds, travelers, and mystic wanderers see within such contorted folds images of Gods.

Yes, I thought, this is what I need to break out of that cycle of shit. Get up to this place where the very scale of it all makes you, and everything about you, insignificant.

Was I now on the path to annihilation, liberation, or to use the Hindu term, moksha? I was game for anything that would kill the pain of what had been? My mind went back to similar circumstances, times when chemicals or mind-blowing reality had overwhelmed my ego. Only then could I begin to glimpse deeper levels of truth. This was for me the true high, the breakdown of individuated energy, distorted by my past into Guy. In its breakdown, the energy was cleansed and returned to the universal, homogenous sea—the One. It was a well remembered, if not overly frequented, place. I liked to think that I had found it on Spindrift, but I really…I mean really…got there with LSD. Conditioning—Father, Mother, School, Church, Community—so blocked my consciousness that I needed the power of acid to blast free. Yes, I had been "experienced." Having been there. I was able to revisit again and again, with or without chemical aids. Gul’s call to dinner broke my reverie.

It might have been the spices Gul used so liberally that made for a restless night. I should have been extremely tired—the first full day of walking and the trail steep—but I was restless. As my body tried to find comfort in the hard uneven ground, my mind struggled to return to the peace I had visited briefly that day. But despite my fondest hopes, I wasn’t going to escape so easily. The voice of the past began its familiar segue, insinuating itself in slow, measured steps. At first it was barely noticeable, baiting my attention with a momentary vision of past pleasure. Then, once my mind tuned in, it hit me like an avalanche, taking me back to that last time…the last time Tara and I made love…or at least I had tried.

^ ^ ^

Besides, "love" wasn’t really the word for that sorry incident. It was after Tara’s kiss-off, after she had given up all hope for our future. It was out in the open. I still refused to believe it, and she had yet to steel her heart completely, yet to bar the door. I bullied her into seeing me, letting me into her apartment—talk about the fox in the hen house. "After all, aren’t we friends?" Then as had happened so many times before, we ended up in the bedroom, at first just talking. It was all so usual and for a moment time was frozen, no past, no future, only that moment. We still felt deeply for one another, despite all the external pressures that led to our break. I found myself on top of her, kissing her, running my hands under her clothing, just as I had done so many times before—it seemed so…natural. I felt her taut-budded breast, the familiar swelling nipples that signaled, "Yes, take me, overwhelm me, take me hard, fuck me, fuck me, make me lose my mind" How often had I looked down to that face, watching it transform, innocent school girl into wanton bitch? How often had I mounted her and done her unspoken bidding? We rushed to get to that place where we would lose self in one another, her hands feverishly kneading her own breast, squeezing them, as my cock entered her, savaging her until we were both bathed in a commingled fluid of sweat, saliva, and released desire. At times our union was so complete that we passed through that boundary of self and entered into one another. She felt my maleness and I her femaleness. Then even this was lost in climatic union.

But this time it was not to be. Perhaps, because to the outside world we were so far apart, we had tried too hard to become one. As I pressed down on her, I was convinced that if only I could make love to her one more time, I could possess her again. I could bring her back from that other world to which she had strayed, a world where I had no part. My mind silently screamed at her: Come back, back into our private world within the touch of our bodies, within our kiss, our embrace. But it was a world that no longer existed, a world that now lived only in my mind.

I wasn’t completely stupid. While part of me wanted to believe, another part was well aware of the reality that what had been, that us, was now dead. I carried out this act with more rage than love. Outwardly, it was a rage toward Tara, the one that had killed our love. Yet it was a rage as much directed within as without. Reaching back to that New Hope Bridge, I had known this day would come. In my mid-forties, I was what I would be. But Tara, barely in her twenties, could only change. Her love for me was a trying on, a seeing how it would be, a costume, and not the practical uniform of life. Part of me always knew this, but it was a part no longer in control. Raw, wounded ego now held sway. If I couldn’t make love, perhaps I could inflict pain. How close was love and hate—just flip the coin.

With my superior strength, I easily subdued her. At first she didn’t resist, allowing me to strip the clothing from her body. I felt her cool flesh quiver as my hand slid under her panties. Much of our lovemaking had included domination fantasies. Measured, controlled violence always turned Tara on. She enjoyed submitting to sex as an inevitability for which she wasn’t responsible. There was so much sexuality with in her, such strong needs. Yet she had been raised to repress this carnal side. It was through me, a totally alien creature, that she could find the freedom to explore this "darker" being. It had been this way from the first. She had resisted, but only to a point. Later she confessed she had wanted to be taken—if only to get it over with.

We delved deeply into the secret areas of each other’s fantasies. She had a fondness for bondage—to be naked, bound spread-eagled across the bed. Yet now I wonder. Was this really her desire or her just her trade-off to please me? Was I just playing out all those Steph engender fantasies? After preparing her bonds, I would talk roughly to her, like to the most common whore.

I knew the talk well. How many nights had I lain awake in a sweat-soaked Cholon bed, sleep denied by the cauldron night, listening to my neighbors downstairs ply their trade with the Grunts? Those boys, pissed as all hell, directed their fury at the poor girls. Echoing those deeply etched phrases, I would tell Tara what I was going to do, letting fantasies fly as I never could with Mei. Was this why they said that the ideal wife was a whore? I never really hurt her, just a gentle slap on her ass, a gentle twist of the nipple, the pain more virtual than real—at least she rarely complained.

I found I didn’t want to cause real pain, just take her to the threshold. But this was a very fine line, a line to be probed with delicacy, taking the sensation to the edge, then backing away. One game we played a lot was "waiting customers." She was the "dime a throw" slut, and I would play a succession of customers, each with increasingly weird demands. She might lie tightly bound, helpless and open to all that the "customers" would do; or following my commands bend her naked body into all sorts of bizarre postures, her body surrendered to the tongue, finger, and cock of my imaginary clientele. I got off on the domination and she on the submission.

I moved from the cool exterior to the heated flesh between her thighs. Suddenly, as if coming out of a dream, she began to murmur, "No, Guy, don’t, it’s not right?"

Her voice was weak, questioning at first, as if not convinced herself. I tried to ignore this shift of mood. Desperation took possession of me. I didn’t want this moment of fantasy to escape; I wanted to forestall the all too inevitable reality. If only I could get inside her, I would be safe. All would be well. I always felt so safe inside her. How strange that this small, young woman had such power. Did it lie in her, or in my own mind?

What started weakly soon gained strength. No longer was there any wavering or question in her demand. A new tone of determination seized her voice. I knew she meant what she was saying. Quickly the act ceased to be consensual. This was more about rage than love, a rage answered by fear. We had become enemies, our coupling transformed into struggle. By then my cock was hard and ready. Every muscle in my body ached to possess her, to subdue her, to make her submit to my will. As I straddled her thighs, my cock rubbed against the smoothness of her flesh. I could feel the surging inside. What if I came now without satisfying her? But the thought spun quickly away. Instead it was replaced by panic that blotted out all sensitivity to Tara’s needs. As my excitement peaked, I was lost to the realm of the primordial, to a totality of physical senses, driving away all thought. It was no longer about love or hate, of tenderness or granting satisfaction. I was a man starved for the life-giving essence that lay between her struggling thighs. I had to possess this essence or die.

I roughly pulled the ribbon on the side of her panties—the sluttish kind I had persuaded her to wear. They fell apart, revealing the gentle rise of her pubis, the whiteness of the flesh showing through the black, lacy strands of hair. I could never get enough of the youth that lay in that down soft skin. Despite her mind’s determination not to have sex, her body’s needs took control. As I placed my finger deep into her, I could feel she was moist, terribly moist, her cunt tight, yet pliant to my explorations. She cried out, this time not to dissuade me, but with that all too familiar sigh of surrendered. For a brief moment "no" had been lost in "yes."

Tara, like me, was susceptible to the senses. If the right button was pushed, she went into autopilot. She too lost her mind and surrendered to the passion lying just beneath her prim, public self. Once that button, a button I knew all too well, was pushed, then she no longer had mind, no ability to recognize whom it was knocking at the door. She only cared that the door be opened and entry made. Perhaps, just this one more time, I could pull it off, touch that button. I wanted to roll her over and take her from behind. She liked that, inviting entry, her slender fingers pointing the way as they spread dimpled cheeks, offering the paradisiacal rosebud that lay within. She knew, only too well, how that sight would madden me, and what in that madness I could do.

Now there was no offer. I knew that, if I was going to make it at all, I had to take her as she was and quickly. Splitting her thighs open with my knees, I drove my cock inside. She became fully conscious, the shock of penetration breaking the rhythm of what had become almost an automated act of stimulus and response. It brought her back to the new reality between us. She squirmed to one side, forcing my cock out unfulfilled.

Rolling to the side of the bed, she screamed, "NO!" It was a cry both of defiance and desperation, equally addressed to herself as to me. She bolted for the bathroom. The door slammed shut and through it I could hear her voice, trembling now with rage, telling me to get out. Panic completely took hold. I felt nauseated, trapped, mortally wounded. That was when I finally knew it was over. I realized my power over her was gone. She didn’t need or want me sexually any more. Without the sex what was left? It had been my power. Now she had found it with another man. He had taken, not only my Tara, my pleasure, my joy, but as distressing as the thought was to me, my last vestige of power.

It was all so simple, so rational to anyone outside the emotion. Yet knowing she still held power, while I was no longer anything but an unpleasant memory, an embarrassment, was too much to endure. Even worse, was a growing awareness that my last aborted act of sex hadn’t been about love. Perhaps, it was because the hate wasn’t fully formed that I had been unable to take her, to force her against her will, as a true rapist would have done. But that element of hate was there, lurking, ready to become full blown, ready to wreak havoc. I had to end this; I had to get away. I couldn’t let what had once been so beautiful become so ugly.

I replayed that scene so many times, over and over and over…I was just getting sick of it. Again, Whistler’s many heads were at work. They were turning me into that very monster against whom I had been warned. Like Mara, perhaps I too was a shape-changer. Perhaps, we are all shape-changers. I was struggling with one head to resolve my past, a past I had loaded onto its latest icon. It was Tara’s fate to embody all my frustrations. While the past mesmerized one head, another knew it was time to let go…to move on.

^ ^ ^

At Darcha, I was concerned by what seemed to be a large number of tourists. Part of my self-conceived treatment was to put as much distance between my past and myself. Most of the tourists were European, but they were still too close to home, too much reminders of whom I was and from where I had come. As a trailhead, Darcha was like the neck of a funnel. Once on the trail the funnel opened up. While we occasionally passed groups, their intrusion was minimal. Had I my way, there would have been no tourists. Yet once I left the main drag to Zanskar, I was confident I would find myself alone with the mountains, my small band of servants, and the few locals who belonged there.

As we drew nearer to the Shingo–la another bottleneck developed. It had been fine until we reached the Jankhar Sangpo, the stream leading to the pass. The trail to the pass turned up the nala, but on the far side of its unfordable stream. The various groups, which had been spread out along the trail, began to collect for the crossing. People appeared seemingly out of nowhere.

Climbing for the past few hours had been very rugged, the trail snaking along precipitous, scree-covered slopes. It rose with lung-bursting steepness, then fell so sharply that I imagined every step to be my last. The verticality of the land became more and more pronounced. The world turned gray, both the land and the sky. Even the torrent far below was leaden, so too the patches of rubble-encrusted snow. These were particularly troubling for occasionally they would lie across the trail. As this was the trip’s beginning, I hadn’t yet become accustomed to such exposure. Now, after all I have been through, it seems rather trivial, but at the time I continually fought against a sick, giddy feeling that rose from my gut. I tried not to look down; I tried to ignore what would be my fate if I slipped from the narrow path worn into the icy crust—the churning waters below.

The day before seemed so bright, so placid, flowers, a few trees, the grazing flocks, but now things were serious. I passed small groups of tourist, homogeneous cliques naturally formed out of the larger, heterogeneous groups. How odd they must look to the locals, decked out in the latest mountain gear, complete with iridescent goggles and the colored sunscreen they painted on their faces like a war party of Hollywood Indians. Most carried ski poles, which they used to coerce unsteady legs over the rocky trail.

As I studied these odd, brightly colored, tightly spandexed people—so much like neon sausages—I noticed that there was a definite change from our earlier meeting in Darcha. The exuberance displayed in the bazaar, the loud talk and camaraderie, was gone. In its place was exhaustion, and in some I thought I could detect the scent of a rising fear. That morning they had forged boldly ahead of their guides; now uncertainty gripped them. Was this the nala that led to the pass?

From information picked up at Darcha, I expected there would be a garroti, the primitive cable car device to cross the stream. It was one of those typical Himalayan affairs: pylons on both banks with cables carrying a box-like car, large enough to permit humans, sheep, goats, and even small ponies to be pulled across. But again, as is typical in these ever-changing mountains, while there were vestiges of the pylons, neither the car nor the cables remained. On closer inspection, Gul located the wreckage of the box wedged into boulders some two hundred yards downstream. There was no question of fording the river, for its strength and apparent depth would have swept to a quick death anyone crazy enough to try. I had only to look at the remains of the garroti to see how certain that end would be.

After some minutes the ponies caught up, along with Yosh and Pal.

"Hey Pal, garroti finish! What now? I greeted him with a whining plaint

"No sweat Dad! Wire out before. We go up! Crossing place there! Insha’Allah."

Without further elaboration, he pointed to some faint tracks etched into the steep hillside.

"Acchaa," I reply somewhat dubiously. Then selecting the most substantial looking of the tracks, about a hands-breadth wide, I began to climb. Soon I found myself inching gingerly along the top of an almost vertical rock precipice. One slip meant a drop into those death-laden waters. This was definitely not a pony trail, but a trail for and by goats, only suitable for their tiny hooves and more nimble climbing skills. Out of necessity and since, according to Pal, the distance wasn’t far, we would try. Besides, Pal and Yosh had recently come this way, not to mention that two of the ponies were theirs. If they were willing to risk them, I couldn’t bitch about risking my gear. The ponies had shown good heart and as there was no other way…Insha’Allah.

I felt deeply sorry for the ponies. They looked so small, so frail under towering loads. What was to pass as a trail was scored out of such a vertical that the baggage would continually brush against the hillside. Each time this happened, the ponies would have to fight to maintain balance. After a load scraped against the ground several times, it would invariably begin to shift and eventually snag. Then, one of the pony-walas had the delicate task of working up and then down to where the creature would stand trapped by the snagged load. Getting to the pony was one large hurdle, but redistributing the load was an even greater challenge. All the while, the roar of that savage torrent below filled the narrow defile, a constant reminder of how slim the margin between life and death.

The ponies were on an extremely narrow ledge, one thrown completely off balance by a skewed load. They couldn’t move forward, and there wasn’t anyway to turn around. We had to keep talking to them, calming them, because the difficulty of one freaked out the others. Not only the animals were tense. So were Yosh, Pal, and Ravi because they would lose not only a source of income, but friends for whom they had deep feelings. I was freaked—each load contained valuable supplies without which the trip would suffer. Gul was equally disturbed—he was afraid that a loss might cut short the journey and, in consequence, his employment. There were a whole lot of bad vibes up on that track.

We continued fighting our way up, trying to get past this ravine, hoping to see the valley suddenly open up, the river broaden and become shallow. I pictured it that way, for Pal, spare with his words, said little about how we should cross. It was maddening. A hundred yards away on the opposite bank, I could see a safe, well-defined trail. That was the way of these mountains. What appeared on the map to be insignificant little blue line, a stream, could turn life into a nightmare. This was even more so when that little blue line had a stack of black lines on either side of it—contour lines that when close together signaled a steep rise.

After an hour, a welcome sight came into view. The nala didn’t widen. Ahead, I saw a bridge made from a remnant of the ice and snow that filled this nala every winter. Equally important was that the track, on which we now so precariously moved, seemed to lead down directly to the up-stream end of the bridge. As I looked closer, I could see that the other tracks, crisscrossing the slopes above and below, converged on this bridge.

Snow bridges are a particular godsend, because they are features of just the terrain that offers the greatest obstacles—steep-sided nalas whose precipitous descents make their streams impassable. It is the very steepness and depth of these nalas that provides shelter from the sun. Along their bottoms, patches remain from the snow cover blanketing the nalas for most of the year. These aren’t the dazzling white or crystalline structures their name might suggest, but deeply eroded, scarred, and filthy with the earth and rock debris. Although undercut by the rushing flow of the streams, they are often many yards thick in places and able to withstand the weight of humans and their beasts. A few are eternal, lasting throughout the summer until the snows of another winter replenish them.

As we turned into the nala the air chilled, the result of an icy wind blowing down from snow peaks of the pass. This was in harsh contrast to the heat of the Barai under which we had labored for most of the morning. Clouds that had been gradually building now closed, leaden gray replacing the incredibly deep cobalt blue, unique to those heights. So deep is this blue that often in my black and white photographs, especially since I favored an orange filter, the sky appears black. The sky’s metallic hue completed the overall the mineral grayness that enveloped us.

I was glad it was cold. It would make the bridge more stable. This particular bridge was quite weathered with several gaping holes to broil below. Judging from the increasing steepness of the nala’s walls, and the lack of tracks on our side beyond the crossing, it was here or never that a crossing must be made.

Above, looking down on the bridge, I could see that the trail descended to the upper end on my side and then snaked around the holes to the far lower corner. However, it was unclear what happened to the trail once it left the ice. From where I stood, it looked as if it abruptly stopped and then another trail appeared about fifty or so yards downstream.

Ravi moved ahead to examine the bridge. Unlike the two Zanskaris, he had been dubious about climbing the goat track and now was damned sure he wouldn’t be bullied into risking his ponies further. After all, his home was in the opposite direction. If the trail was cut, he could just go home. By the time he returned the Zanskaris had brought the ponies down to the edge of the snow. With nothing better to do, I had lit up and was exchanging hits with Gul. Even though my dislike for him was growing, it was always better to share the joint—I was superstitious about that. The two young Zanskaris abstained as usual. They were good Buddhist boys.

When Ravi returned, he looked agitated and began a long explanation in Urdu, the common language between Zanskaris, Lahaulis, and Kashmiris. After about half an hour of deliberation, Gul came to report. Bad news brings no one any good, particularly the messenger.

"Big problem Dad. On far side, trail not go back to other side, ice broken. Big drop, maybe twenty feet, maybe more."

"Fuck it, man, Pal and I’ll take a look," I replied, knowing that if there was a way this resourceful boy would find it. At the same time, I was regretting the joint. I felt dizzy and would have preferred to sit there, contemplating the scene until I regained my equilibrium.

Gingerly, I set out onto the bridge, testing the footing on the shelf-like projection where the ice overlapped the solid land. Got to clear my head, got to get it together. I was worried. It was just this kind of thing that could end the trip, seemingly so small, just some yards of ice, but if it couldn’t be crossed then that was that. Back to Darcha, back to square one.

God, how queasy I get when I am out on one of those bridges. No matter how many times I have safely crossed them. It is worse than a glacier. The glacier is so big, so solid, compared to one of these bridges. All you have to worry about on the glacier are the crevices. Oh, that is a big worry if there is snow cover, but if you can see the crevices then no sweat. On the bridge it is a different tale. Any moment you think that sucker will give way or that you will lose your footing and tumble down…down the long slide into the freezing stream…and you know what will happen if you do. You are walking on a steeply inclined sheet of ice, just holding on with your ax. If I had crampons, it would have been okay…but not this time.

I kept thinking to myself: Why am I being so chicken shit? I came here to die didn’t I? But it was instinctual. It was something deeper than all the intellectualizing, all the flirting with the "romance" of death. It was real and, when face to face, the rules changed; it was all about survival. A different type of intelligence kicked in, taking possession of my body. Only through struggle could I overcome the fear.

I heard the crunch of my first step onto the bridge. It struck me that it was for this feeling I had returned to the Himalaya. It was to be exactly in such a place, a place where fear was in my face, that I had always sought. Oh, I won’t pretend that, when faced by fear, I don’t sweat and squirm; I don’t mouth prayers to some unknown deity to save my sorry ass. No, I am like anyone else in the face of fear. Yet unlike others—maybe through some masochistic drive—I enjoy the feeling, thrive on the test. I had been introduced dealing out of the Alphabets, then addicted in Vietnam, re-upped in Kabul, Beirut, Dacca, Lima, in all those high-risk ops. I got damn high on it. This was better than those past situations, danger here was clean cut; it was life or death. There was little risk of some horrendous disfigurement or the half-death of incarceration. It was all or nothing. In a few minutes, I would either be on my way, or it would be all over…yes or no, a binary fate with no shading in between…clean.

I talked myself through that first rush of fear, feeling my way out onto the scarred ice. The nala’s narrow walls amplified the roar of the stream until it drowned out all other sound, even Pal’s shouts from a few yards away. The bridge seemed to be a giant slide, tilting further with every step. The desire to hold on to something solid overwhelmed me; I wanted…I needed…to retreat to the near bank’s safety.

The tracks Yosh made angled high up on the concave ice, trying to keep far away from that lower lip and the rush of the gray mud-rock-ice melt below. As long as I was high up, if I fell, I would have a chance—a chance to dig in with my ax, a chance to grab hold of one of the many rocks protruding from the surface. My eyes hungrily sought softer places where I could dig in the soles of my boots or, failing that, those spots covered with the scree and gravel that would support me, not let me slide down. Once, twice, my feet flew out from under me. The hard ice rushed up to slam against my body. Each time I expected to feel that slipping motion, the rough surface of the ice tearing at my clothing, my skin…and then out into nothing, followed by the sudden shock of icy water, maybe coupled with a blow as I slammed into a boulder before the onset of oblivion. Yet I merely stumbled, the surface far too rough for me to slide far.

By the time we had gone about half way, I was beginning to master my initial fears. I marveled how adaptable was the human mind, how carefully crafted for its own survival. Stepping out onto the bridge, this diagonal world of ice so hostile to human presence, all of my survival mechanisms came on alert. Checking, testing, trying desperately to get information, to adjust, my mind struggled to get my body to survive.

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^ ^ ^

What a rush! That moment when all the rules were unknown, where your mind had to race, strain its potential just for the privilege of one more breath, one more sound, one more sight…this was really to be alive. How sweet those moments when all senses, all energies, focused on survival—when your only thought was just to be. No psychological claptrap, no questioning, no self doubts, only total concentration on the immediate threat.

Such intensity of feeling couldn’t last. To live in that reality was to live as the animals, or at least in the state we humans ascribe to those we think of as "animals." In very little time, I began to regain my balance. Once that adjustment was made, once I believed I would make it across, then all those alerted systems began to shut down. Now each step no longer seemed a life or death decision. Assumptions began to creep back in. I would make it to the other side. I would have to deal with the problem Yosh reported. I did feel a little hungry. Maybe Gul should make lunch before getting the ponies across. I was back on autopilot, that sweet, panicky feeling in retreat. Along with this change came complacency tinged with foolishness at having exaggerated the danger.

"Holy fuck," I said to no one in particular, "how in the hell are we going to get around this."

I was staring at a gaping chasm, between the overhanging edge of the ice and the riverbank where the trail was joined. This had been the one place where it was possible to reach the trail. Beyond, the bank became a rocky cliff above which the trail was forced to climb. Below, was the open gorge with its insurmountable torrent. At the bottom of the chasm lay the remains of the ice ledge, which only yesterday had safely bridged the now gaping moat. Had the strain of some unfortunate traveler’s weight caused the collapse? What sort of karma would bring an unfortunate to just that point, at just that time, to be the straw that broke this beast’s back? I scanned the rocks and ice debris in the swirling waters, but there was no human sign—no mangled body, no shred of clothing or equipment. The waters here were too powerful, anyone or anything that fell into them would wind up many miles downstream.

What to do? What to do? Mental wheels spun under the weight of the apparent hopelessness. While they were spinning, Pal was at work. His mind was native to these situations and not to be put off by "mere" forces of nature. It had to do with necessity as that mother of invention. I had seen it at work many times before, technological miracles wrought to survive. If Pal wanted to get home, he would have to find a way. Ravi had been quick to concede defeat, because for him going back was to return home. All he would lose was some days pay, but that was infinitely better than losing a pony or two. The same principal was now at work as in the miracles performed by the lorry drivers, coaxing their antiquated vehicles over torturous routes. After much examination, including lowering himself part way into the abyss, Pal reported back.

"Chalo! Chalo! Much work Sahib, We do." Then grabbing my ax, he began to chip away at the lip of the ice overhang. "We break; cut down to water. See, water not so fast." I saw Pal was right. There was, behind a random arrangement of boulders, a less rapid side channel. It wasn’t exactly a millpond, and certainly the water was cold. But at least here the ponies had a good chance, unlike the main channel where there was no chance at all. Tracing the path of Pal’s hand, I saw the channel led to a place on the bank about twenty yards downstream. There it looked as if the ponies could climb out.

It was a long shot, but for Pal it was the way home, back to his family who would be anxiously awaiting his return. He faced two possibilities. He could take a chance and, if he succeeded, return home with his ponies and the profits of this journey—both ponies and profits were crucial to his family’s survival in the coming winter. Or he could send the ponies back to Darcha, to be sold at bargain rates and return home with the meager funds. Pal had no real choice, and neither did I. We were both committed to this route; money and time were running out. Even if I could have afforded to regroup, the season was getting late and soon the snows would close the passes.

This was why I chose the Zanskaris, why, if possible, I always choose people who are going back…returning home.

I knew there would be hell to pay when we got back to the others. At first, Ravi didn’t want to hear anything about going on. He had already set his mind on returning. Gul, despite all the reasons that would later come to light, decided to side with him. Perhaps the gloom of the nala overwhelmed him. He was very unhappy about proceeding. Yosh, on the other hand, for the same reasons as Pal, was all for going on.

In the meantime, other parties were beginning to collect, both those of the locals and the foreign tourist. This trail, though passing through some rather forbidding country, was a main artery, by far the most direct route connecting Lahaul with Zanskar.

Now at least we had the hands to do the job. I had already decided, but had to make a pretense of a fair hearing. I listened politely to Ravi’s entreaties, filtered through the sympathetic interpretation of Gul.

"It much danger for ponies Dad. Who pay if ponies die? How will Ravi live without ponies?"

Battle lines were drawn, Ravi and Gul versus the Zanskaris and me. The Zanskaris began to argue with Ravi, their tone becoming increasingly hostile. Since I knew I would ultimately prevail—as elsewhere, money talked loudest—I realized I must do so with diplomacy. Unless I was careful, Ravi and Gul would have ample opportunity for mischief down the road. I drew the Zanskaris aside. Giving them my ax, I told them to get the preparations underway. At the very worst, we could go it alone and leave the troublemakers behind. Then I turned to deal with Ravi. Speaking through Gul, I told Ravi that no matter what he decided, I was going on.

"If you want to go back on your word…on the deal…then that’s your choice. You promised to go to Padam. If the Zanskaris go, why are you afraid? Are the men of Zanskar braver than those of Lahaul? Do their ponies have bigger hearts? If you will not go, then Gul will have to go back with you. There won’t be enough food for him with only two ponies to carry the saman. Gul’s business will also be finished, and he’ll lose the chance to make many rupees."

This last part was, of course, directed as much to Gul as it was to Ravi.

All of this was too much for Ravi to counter. While he might have, for the sake of expediency, suffered a slur to his own honor—what did he care what this Angrez thought of him—he couldn’t have the quality of his ponies questioned. This was business. Zanskari and Lahauli pony-walas had long been rivals for the cross-border trade. If Ravi backed down, it would reflect on all Lahaulis.

"No, Dad, Lahauli ponies having very big hearts, very strong, very brave. Ravi’s ponies first to go Padam."

The ponies weren’t happy to step out on the ice. The lead gave out a sharp cry as he realized the intended route. By the time we coaxed them across, the Zanskaris and other pony-walas from the tourist parties had begun to cut a slide down to the water. It was steep and slide was just what the ponies would have to do. The work continued, many hands breaking down the jagged edges of the broken ice, filling in the gaps with snow, boulders, and jetsam from the great glaciers that lurked above. Unloading only increased the ponies’ anxiety. They knew that out on this sheet of ice, with only apparent oblivion in front of them, they weren’t halting for the night. They knew something was in store for them, and that it wouldn’t be pleasant.

"UUUUSHT! UUUUSHT! UUUUSHT!" It was time to take the lead pony down. If he made it, then the others might take heart and follow more confidently. It was Ravi’s pony, so it was up to him to take the lead. He grabbed the slight creature by its scraggly main and began to drag it to the edge. At the same time, Yosh got hold of its tail and together they took it down the slide. The trick was to get the struggling creature into the water without going in with it. Pal and several others were at the bottom of the shoot to break the fall. As the pony went down, it sat back on its haunches. Despite the danger I couldn’t help laughing; the creature looked like he was sledding.

The pony hit the water with a splash. The force of the slide carried him into the water. This was fortunate, because it would have been almost impossible to get him in on his own. The channel was deeper than it looked and the current strong. Ravi tried to stabilize the pony while hopping in and out of the boulders lining the bank. About five yards from the landing point, a large eddy almost carried the pony out into the main stream. The pony was flailing out with his legs, desperately trying to gain his footing. His cry turned into a terror-stricken shriek. Ravi realized this was the moment of judgment. He called on Lord Shiva to save him and jumped into the stream. At first it seemed that both pony and man were lost, but somehow, maybe through the intercession of Shiva, Ravi found footing and muscled the foundering pony onto the shore.

Once they were both safe and the pony quieted, it was Ravi’s turn to cry out. He unleashed a string of invectives, cursing the Zanskaris, tourists, and all the evil spirits who made the mountains what they were. The heat of his anger finally succumbed to the chill of his thoroughly wet clothing. Deep in the shadow of the mountain the air was cold. Ravi was trembling uncontrollably. Gul, by now had Ravi’s firm ally, gave him his blanket and built a small fire. Was Ravi, perhaps, overplaying his hand? I wanted Gul back to the main work of getting the ponies across. Yet at the same time, I didn’t want the others to think I was too hard assed about their welfare. I decided to cut them some slack. The two huddled over the fire, commiserating one another on their kismat to work for so stubborn a ferenghi.

One pony across, three to go! The next in line was also Ravi’s, and as the companion of the first it was important that she follow immediately. Ponies, like humans, form close relationships. Ravi, of course, was in no shape to oversee the operation, and the Zanskaris weren’t about to take on the responsibility. This second pony was confused. Her mate was now about fifty yards away, occasionally letting out a plaintive call. But she could also see the route that lay between. She had heard terror in her mate’s cries as he negotiated the slide and then the channel. Although she desperately wanted to be with him, she wasn’t eager to go forward.

Pal told Yosh to move her to the end of the line. I had surrendered all control of the operation to the two Zanskaris. This was their business, the reason I was paying them. Besides, this was a "photo-op," one of the first dramas on this trip. As I started taking pictures, any thought of the danger posed by the bridge quickly subsided. A sense of excitement overtook me. Thought and feeling became constrained to that specific space and time, to the event I found framed in my viewfinder.

And "found" is a most appropriate word. Always passive, the observer, the seeker, the value I sought was the discovery of what existed independent of me. Photography was my connection to that independent world. I guess Whistler—weird how I keep coming back to his read on life—was right when he said photography was prosthesis. Just about every photographer I have ever known was defective in some way; maybe the same is true for all artists—communication freaks, unbalanced having to hold onto some tool, some prosthesis to communicate, to relate to a world so distant. Maybe, the more defective, the more dependent on the prosthesis, the deeper is the art.

Rather than join in the work at hand, the survival work of moving the ponies to the far bank, I retreated into photography’s abstraction. As I snapped away, I was transformed into an automaton. I composed, focused, and adjusted the exposure in some reflexive plane of my mind. Only later, when I saw the picture, would I know what I had taken. In many instances I would be seeing the scenes for the first time. The camera wasn’t only a tool to communicate, but to remember.

The Zanskaris, in the meantime, were getting their ponies down and across. The two boys performed efficiently with minimum noise and confusion. I found myself taking pride in their good work; they were my choice, my boys. It was time for the last pony and there was no way around it. Ravi would have to be roused. He had warmed a little with the help of some hot chai that Gul, reverting to his cook’s role, conjured. What power it was to have a technical skill, photography, cooking, to escape the more mundane tasks in life.

Poor Ravi was caught in a bind. The last thing he wanted was to take another trip down that slide, but one pony, his best, was already across. To make matters worse, the Zanskaris had taken their ponies across with almost no fuss. It was now only his quivering beast who waited forlornly on the ice. It seemed that she was intentionally looking away from the moat, hoping in denial that something would happen to spare her.

Everyone waited for someone else to take action. Ravi huddled over the fire. Gul tried to look busy with the gear. The Zanskaris settled their own ponies. I was suddenly confronted with a lack of action, nothing to capture or record. I returned to my senses. It was my party and, ultimately, I had to move when no one else would. I called to Gul, loading my voice with as much authority as I could muster.

"Hey Gul! Gul! Get Ravi’s ass up here. We have got to get this pony down and move up to camp."

Gul took no notice, nor did anyone else on the bank. Was the stream noise too loud, or was it the symptom of something more malevolent? No, my Zanskaris would have answered…if they could have heard me.

The poor pony was standing there, quivering, trying to ignore the inevitable ordeal that lay ahead. As I approached, it struck me that perhaps she was desperately wishing: "now he’ll take me back down to my home, all this will be over. Soon I’ll be safe in my familiar field with a bail of barley straw." I found myself often giving voice to these animals.

I grabbed hold of the pony’s lead and, pulling her around, walked toward the edge. It was quite frightening at first because the drop was so abrupt. I kept thinking I was about to fall into the abyss. What made it even more frightening was the roar of the stream immediately below. I had lived with that sound many times before—it is the white noise of the mountains that never goes away. Before, I had never sensed that it was so threatening. The sound that day will always be with me, permanently inscribed in my mind by that moment’s terror.

The pony by now was almost catatonic. I asked a boy who was serving one of the tourist groups to give me a hand. With his slight hands clinging tightly to the pony’s tail, down we went.

When negotiating the slide, the other ponies had gone back on their hindquarters. This posture, while appearing ridiculous, also kept their weight low. But despite my attempt to hold her head up, this one for some unknown reason couldn’t keep her forelegs extended. She stumbled. There was a muted snapping sound followed by a terrible shriek. I knew in an instant she had broken a foreleg, but was too busy trying to maintain my own footing. Suddenly the world was upside down. I was tumbling down towards the water with the flailing, shrieking pony. I reached out to steady myself, but all I grabbed was rotten ice that broke away in my fingers. I felt a sharp pain in my left thigh as it was caught under the weight of the pony and crushed against the rough surface of the ice. I was no longer leading the beast, but tangled with it. Our combined weight sent us tumbling out of control towards that terrible river.

Is this IT? The thought of impending death flashed across my mind. Mara’s many faces kaleidoscoped somewhere in space, indefinable except as "below." I had come here looking for IT, and now I was going to find IT. Faced with the imminent presence of Mara, I thought what an asshole I had been. No, I was…yes, an asshole plain and simple to court Death in this fashion, to meet it in such a place.

I was even deprived of that privacy, that intimacy, I had imagined death would be. Instead an audience of tourist were lined up readying to capture my ordeal on videotape and Kodachrome. I could see my death replayed over and over on VCRs and slide projectors throughout Europe, a spark in what otherwise would be boring vacation "highlights."

"Ah what a tragic moment! But see how the camera kept it all in such sharp focus and such good exposure. Marcel is such a good photographer, really captured that crazy Yank’s last agonies."

I didn’t have the luxury to wallow in these reflections too long. The bottom was approaching and with it a fresh horror. A new sensation quite literally flooded my mind. Unimaginable coldness, so cold that I felt my body was on fire. It wasn’t only the cold, but the clawing wetness, fluid, yet at the same time almost solid in its power. Even though I tried to struggle, the stream quickly overwhelmed me with its serpentine embrace.

I remember looking up and seeing the horrified face of the boy whose aid I had enlisted. When we started to fall, he must have wisely let go and scrambled back up the slide. Now he was screaming at the top of his lungs, but the noise of the river was too great to make out his words.

All the tumbling with the injured pony had taken us off course from the slide. Rather than fall into the relative safety of the side channel, we were to one side of the main stream, half in half out, the pony wedged in among the boulders. The force that made the hideous, nala-filling roar was now tearing at us. Desperately I held on to the pony’s mane. Had we been absolutely still and waited until help arrived, there would have been no problem, but the pony was in pain. Perhaps, she instinctively knew all was over for her. The sooner she surrendered to the icy waters, the sooner her agony would end. She was thrashing with such force that it was inevitable she would break free, taking us both to our doom. The only uncertainty was in whether we would drown, freeze, or be crushed among the boulders.

I looked to the far bank for help. I could see that Ravi was still wrapped up, trying to regain a normal body temperature, and the Zanskari boys were busy repacking their ponies’ loads. Aside from the terrified boy, apparently only Gul was aware of my plight. He watched, surreptitiously at first, not wanting me to know he knew my danger. This way his options were open. "Insha’Allah, Dad will save himself?" It would be such a bother to have to renegotiate the slide, to risk what had happened to Ravi or worse. Then I caught his eye. He must have seen the fear in mine. Realizing I was in serious trouble, he went into action.

"Not good to have Dad killed," might have run Gul’s thought. "Inspector Singh Sahib—may Allah curse him for the son of a sow he is—not happy about that. No, these days ferenghi drug smugglers are few. Singh can’t afford to lose a fish like this one, and what is bad for Singh is very bad for me. I must save my fish from drowning."

It would have been in character for Gul to chuckle at his own wit. He was comfortable with that metaphor. Kashmiris, people of well-stocked lakes and mountain streams, prided themselves as fisherfolk. They often thought of life, of business, in terms of fishing. Hadn’t Aziz, his boss and mentor in the tourist trade, always talked of the tourist as a fish to catch? "Play the tourist carefully. Each one’s different, each will strike, but only at the right bait. Give them lots of line, let the hook work in firmly before you try to pull them in."

Well, this was the chance to embed the hook. Surveying the situation, he saw he would be little danger. From my perspective, things were quite extreme. I tottered between life and death out on the rocks, at any minute to be dragged into the maelstrom by the thrashing pony. It would be little trouble for Gul to throw me a line. That was all that was needed. Once I had a firm grip, I could begin to extricate myself from the pony and reach the safety of the boulders. If worse came to worse, Gul could send the Zanskaris across to pull me to the bank—but not before he was sure I understood it was he who was saving my ass.

"Yes, let those fucking Zanskaris take the risk, but the credit to me. Make Dad trust me; make him owe me; all the better when later, sitting in some God-forsaken Amrikan prison, he puts the pieces ever so slowly together. Y’Allah, I wish I could see that, see the look on that sun-reddened, peeling potato, Sheytan-bearded face, when he figures how he was hooked, when he figures it all out…"

Now was not the time to savor such a victory. Gul, once he had decided a course of action, moved swiftly before opportunity slipped away. He rummaged among the burlap bags until he found the rope. I had nagged him to find a good rope. It wasn’t the same as that life-saving kernmantle of my more affluent past. Instead, we had to make do with a thin, stiff, plastic laid line that, I knew from bitter experience, would rip my hands.

I heard Gul’s cry and saw, out of the corner of my eye, the bright yellow line arching toward me. On the first try Gul’s throw was short. The line splashed limply into the channel, separating the rocks from the bank. The second throw made the rocks, but fell where I couldn’t reach it. Finally, after coming up with the bright idea of tying a stick to the rope’s end, Gul got the range. The roped stick wedged itself among some rocks just beyond my outstretched arm, but with luck it was reachable. Trust that fucker to make me sweat, I thought.

Now that this path back to life was only a short lunge away, the shock my predicament began to diminish. My mind fought to clear away the confusion. There was no point in trying to save the pony. She was a goner, even if she could, by some miracle, make the bank. The way her foreleg flopped at such unnatural angles told all.

Just as I reached for the rope, I felt a violent shudder. My mind disengaged, unwilling to remain with a body facing such extreme exposure. Fear, survival, cold, pain, evaporated. I could only see, only think about that flailing limb and the pain it caused the pony. The cold took control. I drifted away from that awful present into a more comforting past. Yes, I thought, I must do something for the pony. I had seen other such unfortunate animals left to fate, their owners unable to bring themselves to do what must be done.

^ ^ ^

There was that big red Gujar horse some years back in the Upper Warwan—a valley just east of the main Kashmir Vale. It was late autumn, after the Gujars had departed. I had been backpacking alone and seen no one for several days. Then in the distance, on a grassy meadow across the stream, I saw the red horse. How the Gujars must have loved that horse. She was large for the mountains, well formed, and her rusty color was most prized by the Gujars.

Although she breathed clear mountain air and nibbled on still lush grass, she must have known winter was closing in, and with it her end. Red—alone in the mountains you quickly become intimates—sensed my presence; she called to me with a loud whinny. Yet when she moved toward me, I suddenly realized why this valuable horse was here alone. She moved haltingly, hobbling on three legs, the forth, the right foreleg, hung limp and useless—she was doomed. At first she must have felt great pain, she must have cried, but as time past that pain became part of her; she learned to live with it.

There was no way Red could have made the journey down, yet her master couldn’t put her down—the Insha’Allah syndrome struck again. I knew what her fate would be. Soon, the snows would come. Perhaps she would just succumb to the cold. Or to the hunger that would come when the snows covered the grass, and she no longer had the strength to burrow down to find the life-giving energy. Worse, cold would soon bring the predators, wolf, bear, and even leopard, down into this valley. She would be food for them and then, if anything was left, for the carrion-eating birds that prowled the skies.

My first thought was to go to her. I had no gun, only a knife to put her down. Not an easy thing, but it would have been quicker than starvation or wolves. The stream, however, stood between us, and it was impassable at that point. Maybe the impossibility of action made me rationalize. Although at first I had been swept with pity, it was quickly replaced by overwhelming respect. Red quietly faced her end, surrounded by such infinite beauty, such peace, and such seeming union with existence, that even in death she would provide life for other beings—I too was succumbing to Insha’Allah.

This was her karma in the ageless cycle of life and death. How right it was for the Gods to place this river between us, to protect this beast from the intrusion of human emotion, allowing her to play out her own destiny. There in the mountains alone, the self-assumed superiority of the human way amounted to little. I looked across to Red, and she looked at me. There was a look of recognition in her eyes, a communication between equal beings that said, "Don’t worry, all is as it should be. Don’t be afraid for me. I’m not afraid."

You might say this was hallucination, or at least projection, perhaps brought on by my own loneliness…later, back amongst my fellows, I too had consigned it so. But in that moment, stripped of the mind-numbing illusion civilization brings, I was attuned to the equality of all life, to the wisdom inherent, not just in humanity, but in life itself. It was a truth…is a truth I believed then, as I now believe…it is always there before us, if only we can strip the veil away.

^ ^ ^

I forced myself back to the present, to the extreme danger I faced. "It’s not over yet asshole, you’ve still got to get that rope," a voice inside goaded. But there was another voice that called, "Let go, don’t to struggle, just surrender—like Red." The snaking, bright yellow slack of the rope only inches from my face jarred me from such thoughts. Come on, I thought, stop wool gathering…your not escaping that easily. Pick up the rope and get yourself out of here. Then suddenly, without knowing quite how it came to be there, I had the rope firmly in hand. I had been right; it cut into my hands, but it was too late to worry about that now. Better a few cuts than to be battered to death or drowned among the rocks.

With a firm grip on the rope, my next task was to free myself from the pony. I forced any thought of compassion from my mind and edged the trembling beast into the current. As long as I could hold on to the rope, the current would do the rest.

My ears will always hear that streams malevolent roar. My eyes will always see that last look the pony gave me.

At first, it was almost as if she couldn’t believe I was going to do it. Yet at the last instant, before she swirled away into the current, I thought I saw a glimmer of both resignation and understanding in her bulging, bloodshot eyes. It was as if she knew she had to die, that there was no other way, and she didn’t want it to haunt me. It was much the same as with Red. Amazing, how we can come to believe what suits us.

I kicked out with all my remaining strength. The effort, although not great, was enough to dislodge the pony and send it tumbling into the waters. She cried once, followed by a hollow "thuuump" as her head crunched against a boulder not five yards from where I lay. Then there was nothing but the sound of the river and the ever so faint cry from Gul: "Come on Dad! Come this way!"

It was over. Now it was only a matter of picking myself up, crossing the short stretch of outer channel to the safety of the bank. Gul was there to pull me up on the bank, and to take the plaudits. Of course there was Ravi to deal with. Gul, ever the one to make trouble, had alerted him to the danger. At first, he seemed almost a disinterested bystander, not really understanding that his own fortunes were so heavily at stake. Then, the finality of his pony’s end began to penetrate his partially thawed consciousness. It was almost as if he had no knowledge of any of the events leading up to the tragedy. The only thing that stuck with him was the image of my final kick, sending his beloved beast to its watery grave.

The first thing I saw, after Gul pulled me up, was Ravi rushing toward me, his face livid with rage, a large kitchen knife clenched in his upraised hand. Luckily for me, Pal stood in Ravi’s line of attack. Ravi was small in stature. Though no giant, Pal was big and strong enough to handle Ravi without too much effort. Ravi’s rage did give him an added measure of raw strength, but it was an unorganized, uncontrolled energy he couldn’t use to its best advantage. Stepping deftly aside, Pal coolly tripped Ravi, sending him tumbling to the ground; the knife clattered into the channel, safe from doing any harm. He then squatted down on top of Ravi and, with Yosh’s help, pinioned him to the ground.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Ravi calmed. His ranting ceased, and he began to speak coherently or, at least, he seemed coherent, for I couldn’t understand what he said. It seemed as if the crisis had passed. Gul announced lunch was ready. The thick clouds that had been building all morning suddenly gave way to the sun’s noonday heat. Gul spread a blanket in a rare spot where the sun’s warmth touched the otherwise shaded defile. For a seeming eternity I had ridden on the crest of pure adrenaline. As I sat down, my body felt drained, but soon the simple meal—chapatis, daal bhaat, strong, sweet, milk chai, capped by chocolate—brought renewal.

I lit a joint. After recovering from the usual rush, all those feelings, which only moments before held me captive, dissolved. Instead, I let the present enfold me, contentedly watching Pal and Yosh muscle the remaining saman across to the bank below. Yet in watching, I was reminded that the weight of all my past was also following close behind. Again, just like the ponies, I would have to resume my burden.

I started to drift off to those places and people I so often visited. God! I hadn’t thought about Tara or any of that for hours. Amazing what a dose of reality would do. Then I realized the reality—the need to act on the immediate external threat—wasn’t over. On the trail, the memory world served as sort of a TV set—an escape. As painful as many of those memories were, it was tempting to blot out the present by losing it in thoughts of the past. I didn’t have to stick to any reality, even if that had been possible. I could just relive past events in any fashion that I cared to imagine. Yet as much as I was tempted to drift off into one of those other times and places, I realized that all wasn’t well. The passage across this river cost something. Things were now different, and I knew I needed to reflect on what that difference might mean.

We were now left with three ponies. This would be no real problem in that we only needed three. Of course, the dead pony’s mate was disconsolate, and there was no telling how he might perform in the coming days, days that would require his utmost efforts if we were to get over the pass.

The real problem was that I now had working for me a man who, minutes before, had been angry enough to try to kill me. Ravi was quiet now and, according to Gul, contrite about the violence, although he wanted to know who would pay for the pony—translate "Dad Sahib will pay won’t he?" I didn’t want to think about this. How much would make him happy? At most, the pony was worth maybe fifty dollars U.S., but I knew what would happen. If I accepted responsibility, then Ravi would believe he was in control. He might demand one or even two hundred dollars. He certainly wouldn’t be happy with the fair price, and it was to buy his happiness that was the sole purpose of paying him. Then I thought, what could Ravi do? Even under the influence of drug-induced paranoia, I could perceive little threat. Maybe the sun, so bright with such welcome warmth, overpowered any shadows of fear that lurked in my mind.

It was reasonable to doubt that Ravi would walk away now. The thought of recrossing the stream terrified him. If he was to hope for compensation, it would only come on successful completion of the journey. All I had to do was give him the impression some settlement would be reached, when—Insha’Allah—we got to Padam. Once there, I could just tell the little bugger to fuck off or, maybe, even turn him over to the local police.

As if to foreshadow trouble ahead, again the clouds blanketed the sun. With the sun’s passing, the chill wind from the pass returned. Then momentarily the defile became radiant again. Sunlight danced on ice, water, and crystal-flecked rock, only all too quickly to be overcome. The gloom returned, turning the nala into gargantuan construction site where mountains were both rising and being torn apart, where life dallied at its peril and mineral ruled. I paused to take a photo, from a height, down across the length of the snow bridge to the stream as it disgorged below.

Although I was using Kodachrome, I knew the picture would appear only in grays. I marveled at the lack of contrasts, no pure whites nor blacks, only dirty metallic hues of uplifting bedrock being transformed into soil for the plains. How eternal this process seemed. Ancient seabeds torn asunder by black granite spires, remorselessly upthrust by tectonic pressure to tower in the leaden sky. Slightly lighter were their lower slopes, fragmented with remnants of those solid peaks: first by boulders, then by scree which fell down the slopes onto an even lighter layer, brightened by an undercoat of ice and snow. Lightest of all was the liquid mix of gravel and water that formed the stream. This silt-filled torrent undercut the snow bridge as it made its way through the mountains whose remains it carried. The importance of Shiva wasn’t lost, for destruction is such an integral part of creation—the recombining transform of energy. The effluent from these mountains, the water and silt, brought renewal to the plain far below. Quite rightly those crores, those tens of millions of plains dwellers venerated the Himalaya as the home of the Gods—the source and sustenance of life.

The trail sharply climbed the steep ravine. Following it had put all thoughts out of my mind, except for making it to the top without falling too far behind. Walking was harder, breathing harder. We were going up another of those narrow tracks, climbing above another sheer vertical face. This was supposed to be the main trail? Each step became a deliberate exercise in mind over matter.

It was important to me that my boys—well if they were going to call me "Dad"—perceived no sign of weakness. I did have my old ploy, stopping to photograph, as a cover. When thing got too strenuous, or dangerous as in Nam, I had that excuse. I found a comfortable outcropping of rock and while the others continued upward—"uuusht, uuusht"—I dropped down, snapping a few frames: wide-angles down the valley and telephoto close-ups of the peaks. The momentary rest allowed oxygen to reach my lungs, giving my mind the scope to move beyond its immediate confines.

Was I was just out of shape? But then all of my company looked strained. Perhaps the two Zanskaris were less so, but they seemed to be brave lads, not given to revealing their weaknesses. Gul was less reticent. Delhi had taken its toll and, struggling up the trail, he occasionally let go with a curse. Ravi, on the other hand, kept silent. He had much to think about, much to consider. He had lost a good part of his wealth. He was desperate to get compensation.

Gul assured him, "Dad make you happy. Just get him to Padam. Dad Amrikan, you know all Amrikans very rich, they have too much money. No problem, you see, but in Padam." Both Gul and I knew humans believe what they want, and this is true in every culture. But this was India, where they have developed the art of telling each other the good news and suppressing the bad. The good, though polite in form, is nevertheless suspect. Ravi, despite his naive appearance, was well aware of this stratagem. Ravi must have puzzled over his predicament as he drove his one remaining pony upward, "Uuusht, uuusht." He didn’t want to believe, yet what other course was there than to trust this Dad and his Kashmiri dog.

"Hah! That fucker thought he’d fool me into believing he’s my friend. I must watch him closely. The shepherd’s dog may defend the sheep, but eventually he will bring them to the slaughter. It’s one thing to get extra food and his Delhi-bought cigarettes are good, but he’s Muslim and I’m Hindu. We can never forget how they gave up the true Gods to win favors from the foreigners. How they tried to steal our mountains, how they still try…to rob our Gods of their home—as if they could. No, I won’t trust him or this crazy Dadee Sahib. How can I trust a man who comes into these mountains with no business, just for pleasure. Doesn’t he know how dangerous this place is, how many die? Only these know-nothing foreigners, these ‘tourists’ who have no experience of this place, no sense of what these mountains mean to we who live here, would come for pleasure."

As I struggled with the physical challenge of the ravine, Ravi struggled with his mind, taking little notice of the difficult way. By the time he reached the top, he had reconciled himself to his current condition.

"I’ll play along," he thought, "but if they try to fuck me in Padam, I’ll make them pay dearly."

The top of the ravine was a welcome sight. After leaving the bridge, we climbed steadily for almost three hours. The trail followed, what to an aerial observer would have appeared, a large step, the nala rising sharply. In the past, during a colder age when the glacier extended much further down, this must have been the site of an icefall. Here, the rock was harder and resisted the cutting action of the glacier.

On the top of this step, the nala widened precipitously, taking on the U-shape characteristic of glaciated valleys. The stream, which below rushed with such malevolence, now meandered in multiple braids: its roar quieted into a soothing, almost congenial gurgle. The stream had so quieted that, for the first time since Darcha, I became aware that we were not alone. Neighbors called out, making themselves known: the screech of the marmot, the burble of the chikors, the caw of the ravens. But it was not only my ears that were invited to feast. Best of all, what had been the barest of tracks magically transformed into a veritable highway, bordered by patches of luxuriant grass, dotted with colonies of yellow buttercups, purple asters, gentians, and pink primroses. Overhead the ice-encrusted mountains still loomed, but for the moment it was as if I had reached paradise.

I had hoped to camp that night at a place the locals called Rumjack, which lay at the top of a wide, almost-level step in the nala. When we arrived, the camp was already overwhelmed by a party of Italians and another of mixed nationality. As I passed by this latter group, an English-speaking woman, possibly American or Canadian, invited me to take tea. A chill went through me as if shocked that I was still identifiable as a fellow tourist—just another day-tripper on a magical mystery tour.

The difficulties we had encountered, and the problems they caused, took me far away from any reality I might have shared with this woman. I knew what was coming. I had seen her likes before when guiding my own flocks—lonely, middle-aged professional women on the adventure of their lives, looking for change…maybe through romance. They were hungry. I was deep into my own crossover fantasy. I thought I had left her world far behind. I believed—wanted to believe—that I was now part of this land. The mountains had become as native to me as the hills of San Francisco or the beaches of SoCal. How could this woman, this Angrez memsahib, identify with me? Couldn’t she see we weren’t the same? I didn’t want to deal with…I didn’t want to be that person that she saw. I wanted to be the person that I believed I had become, the "man of these mountains" person inside. I was no longer an Angrez marked by pale skin, green eyes, cameras, photojournalist vest, or any of the other stigmata of the foreign interloper. I didn’t want to deal with the assumptions I thought she would make of me. Assumptions that would counter the new role I was assuming.

With a studied awkwardness, as if in the native manner shy of a foreigner’s approach, I politely declined. Without breaking stride, I briskly moved on. A little farther up, I came upon Gul and the boys, kicking back in boulders that offered shelter from the rising wind. They had been waiting for me to give approval to this campsite before unloading the ponies.

Gul was, of course, eager to share the campsite with the throng of foreigners. He had arrived quite some time before and already surveyed the field. It had potential. The Italian group had a couple of young women who caught his eye. With his dark, roué looks, he could have passed as Italian or for that matter Arab, Jew, Spaniard, Greek, or any one of the Mediterranean peoples.

"Dad we make camp here? Gul asked expectantly.

"Too many folks," I replied, looking back on the throng of brightly colored tents. "Let’s move on a bit."

"But Dad no more good camps until just before pass, four, five more hours, too far, too late."

"I’m sure we can find something just a little further up, Gul my son."

I had taken to adding sobriquet heavily touched with irony every time I answered to "Dad." I hoped that somehow Gul would pick up on my irritation, but of course he didn’t, or at least he wouldn’t cop to it. Was his mastery of the language too primitive to detect the meaning of the undertone or, perhaps, it was just this irritation he sought to create?

Gul must have wondered about my aloofness. "Why didn’t this man want to be with his own kind? What was he running from? Maybe this Dad was one of those who came in search of boys, to do with them what normal men did with women? There had been many of those."

He and the pony-walas had already enjoyed some intense debates whether I was or wasn’t. He had even suggested Pal offer himself just to find out the score. Pal, who was very innocent and very straight, bristled at the suggestion. He had almost come to blows with Gul, even though Gul could have dealt with him quickly.

"These boy-lovers are always a source of gossip and derision among the tourist-walas. Almost everyone who worked the trade had at least one encounter. Bismillah! Preserve me from that perversion," and then chuckling at his own humor he added, "unless it can make my fortune."