Shattered

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The light from the stove strikes the crystal, glimmering rays dance among the facets. "Please, Devara seeing!" I am startled. I had almost forgotten Devara, almost forgotten I am still in a world bounded by shared space and time. Without another, without something outside of me, there is no need for time, no need for space. I and I alone is all. I recover and hand Devara the crystal, about the size of my thumb. Devara holds it to the stove’s thin flame. A rainbow appears on the sloping tent wall. Devara giggles from the joy this simple act brings. It is as if he uses the crystal as a key, unlocking the many colors from what appears to be devoid of color. Once again Devara grows fainter, as does our world, a world cast in shared awareness. My mind reaches out along crystalline frequencies. I hear life’s song. After all, when it comes down to the essence of life, it is all vibration, visual, aural, tactile, all vibration.

Just before leaving Phuktal, Yosh approached, eyes downcast. He made a short speech, which Pal translated: "Yosh much sorry, he not with us coming. Pony now only pony. For family Yosh must go home in safety." He went on to explain that the way to Thonde was hard enough for humans, but impossible for ponies, especially for one so young. Yosh’s plan was to catch up with Gul and Ravi, then meet us in Padam. Just before he turned to go, Yosh pressed a small object wrapped in an oily, well-worn scrap of paper.

"Yosh say he look hard for what Sahib Dadee ask, stone that light shines through. He want to find for rupees Dadee promise. He very happy when he find, but think he keep longer, to see if Dadee give more rupees. Now Dadee and Yosh go different ways. Yosh not know the will of the Taras, what they have for Dadee, what for Yosh. Yosh once see Dadee for rupees only. Now he feel more. He give clear stone. He want no rupees. Zanskaris also know power of clear stone, power to heal heart, power make owner strong. Yosh hope strength come to Dadee Sahib. If all meet in Padam, then it good to give Yosh baksheesh."

During Pal’s explanation, my first thought was that this son of a bitch had copped out again. Anger surged, but then almost as quickly subsided. Chill! After what just happened, it is foolish to be angry with Yosh, no matter his earlier flight. Yosh never signed on for this excursion. From reports of the terrain ahead, I knew he was right not to chance the life of the pony. Things were happening to me that were beyond my grasp. Yes, what ever happened now was for definite purpose. I could see it all clearly. The plan was to unburden me, and I must trust the plan. How much better it would be, if I could rid myself of Pal as well. If only my kit was smaller; if only I was able to carry it myself. But I still had my cameras and that, together with sleeping back, clothing, and other "essentials," required at least one other back. I was getting close, but close wasn’t enough.

We trekked to Tantak in silence; each lost to our own thoughts. Perhaps Pal was worried about the physical dangers ahead, Geser, the spiritual ones. Suddenly freed from the worry of where I was going, I had the luxury to look elsewhere.

The walls of the nala seemed even darker, crimsons turned purple-black. Occasionally jagged bolts of orange, yellow, and green-tinged browns shot through. The change came in part from the diminishing light, the sky far above, a thin, metallic blued-sliver, squeezed between distant ice-clad rims. What sort of world must spread out unseen beyond those ragged lips?" From the map, I could imagine a world of ice and snow spilling down from those seven dragons, a world that, even in summer, could quickly turn into one of the Wheel of Becoming’s frozen hells. It would be a world unseen, almost until I reached the Thonde-la. Only then would I be able to look across to the great ridge, stretching for the sky while those dragons gnawed greedily the razored scarp, working to form a future line of mighty peaks.

I had been lost in thought between Phuktal and Tantak. But now, seated in the courtyard of ramshackled Tantak Gomba, the magnificence of my surroundings returned overwhelming all introspection. My hand awkwardly searched the vest’s many pockets seeking the crystal. Finally recalcitrant fingers found the prize. The late morning light was intense, but I savored it, all the more in the knowledge of its transience. I played with the crystal, brushing the rough lime-washed walls with spectral colors. If I could get lost in those colors, I would forget my bitter disappointment.

It wasn’t that easy. Tantak was the point of departure, the place we would say good-bye to Geser…and all the hope I had loaded on him. And what hope! Yes, everything had seemed to be falling in place. Back in the chasm of the crevice, I was so close to Mara, straddling the fiery and frozen hells, waiting to pass judgment on my life. Yes, I was strangely at peace, though with little doubt as to how that judgment would proceed. Then, unexpectedly, I had been saved. And not only my ass, for there was Geser to save my soul. And again it made such sense. The pieces fit.

But from the vantage of Tantak, I could see it was just another strand in Maya’s web. I had been saved, not because of the machinations of some God, fate, or destiny, but because Gul wanted to pick my bones. Once again I was saying good-bye to fantasy. Again betrayed by the driving force between my legs, a force I often mistook as from my heart. I had wanted to fuck Atisa, plain and simple. There was no magic. I was just horny as hell, despite all that flighty, self-righteous posturing. So horny that, when it came down to it, I cared little whether I was sticking it to man or woman, adult or child. All I sought was just a warm, fuzzy depth that would accept me and rid me of my burden. Now I must pay, once more cast adrift in a hostile world.

I waved my final good-bye to Geser from the other side of the chu. I paused by the "V" bridge, snapping pictures of a lone monk, wending his way upwards through the wilderness until he was lost in the sea of scree and boulders. I thought as long as I could keep him in sight, there was still some hope of redemption. Then he was gone, and I was alone with Pal.

"Dadee we must go! Food finish! Men in Tantak say Changpa camp where Niri meet Shingri. If camp finished, no food until Thonde Gomba¼ two, maybe three days away, on Thonde-la other side. Ahead, before Changpas, Shadi Gorge. Much steep, much rocks come down, best go early before rock heat in sun, before snow above being water,. Many men, many animals lost in Shadi."

We set off. I was already sore from carrying the unaccustomed weight. It was surprising; no matter how well my legs were conditioned, it was entirely different carrying a pack, even a relatively small rucksack. Mine couldn’t have weighed more than thirty pounds, an unfamiliar weight in a land where every ounce matters. The straps cut into my shoulders; circulation slowed in my arms. Hands, already swollen from the altitude, ached from the pressure. No matter how I squirmed, I couldn’t find a comfortable position. I was amazed at how so much stuff remained. Gul had taken most of it, but I was straining. It wasn’t out of vanity that I hired my train of servants. Only a masochist would willingly carry loads. Pal, who was burdened with at least treble my load, didn’t seem to mind. True, he had my fancy, high-tech pack that distributed the weight "scientifically," but I used that as an excuse to load him.

Breath came harder. From the intensity of the river, I knew we were climbing. The track became faint, lost in the scree and boulder talus that continually trickled down from above. At times, we were forced into the stream, picking our way among the boulders. To escape what was becoming a painful ordeal, I began to scour the ground for interesting rocks. I fantasized I was a geologist seeking fame and fortune. Just around the next bend lay a mother lode: diamonds, sapphires, rubies, and gold, these mountains held them all and more. It was only a matter of finding them.

The "clop-clop" of a single rock bouncing down the mountain shook me from this reverie. It rolled right in front of me and then into the chu. As I looked up to its source, I saw something that, in all my years in the Himalaya, I had never seen. It was a large herd of ibex, maybe three dozen in all, leaping headlong from rock to rock about five hundred yard above us. I had seen the beast before, but in small familial bands. I reached for my camera, the one with the 180-mm, but it was wedged under the strap of the pack. By the time I got the pack off and the camera to my eye, all that remained of the herd’s passage was a lingering cloud of dust. I looked over at Pal. He seemed upset.

"Not good Dadee! See how skya run down nala. Not good sign! This time they high in mountain, not come down, and not so many together. Too early coming down! Something make them…aaah…ahfraid!"

The nala walls grew increasingly vertical. Occasionally more rocks would roll past, some the size of large watermelons, some with frightening velocity. We made a turn in the canyon. All those gorgeous colors found below were muted into tans and grays. Completely empty of vegetation, the landscape was decidedly lunar, yet at the same time fragile. Any minute, all that lay above might come tumbling down.

"This must be Shadi. It like Geser say Dadee. Much bad spirit here! We must keep going. We must not stop until bend."

It was only with the greatest difficulty I could make sense of what Pal was saying, for we were close by the chu. The reverberating walls magnified its considerable noise. Pal pointed to a jutting black basalt prominence. It was less than a mile away. Less, that is, if we could have flown over the huge pile of boulders crowding the narrow valley floor. Without wings, there was no other course except to find a way through that maze—on one side the sheer rock wall, on the other the raging chu.

We had covered about a hundred yards, when I felt the first of the tremors. It was just the slightest of shakes, hardly noticeable on this already unstable ground. Being a Californian, I wouldn’t have thought much about it, except that Pal’s face was deathly pale.

"BUCHAL! BUCHAL! Cow, cow is moving. Many die! We die!" He was really weirded out. I had no idea what he was saying, until I remembered that many in India think a giant, subterranean cow causes earthquakes. I went over to him just as a number of large boulders came bouncing by. Minutes before they had come in a trickle; now they were a stream that threatened to become a flood. Pal was exposed and frozen to the spot. Just ahead was one of those house-sized erratics. It looked like good a place to find refuge. Somehow, with strength I thought long gone, I half-pushed, half-pulled Pal into a cleft under the boulder. It was none too soon, for just as we reached safety, another tremor hit, followed by such an avalanche of rock that we never would have survived in the open.

Great rocks, some a ton or more, came rushing down the slope, bouncing up in the air when they struck something more massive than themselves. All I could think of was a mortar attack. Fuck! How I had hated that. No matter how deep you dug, no matter what you put up in front of you—especially those big mothers¼ 120s, coming straight down on you, fragmenting all over hell¼ just a distant pop, then coming at the speed of its own sound. You hardly heard it until that roaring freight train was right on….

Dust fogged the air. The rain of boulders gradually receded, but the nala continued to reverberate with a terrible roar. I looked over at Pal and saw fear-filled eyes through a mask of caked gray dust—just like one of those demon masks worn by the lamas at festival time. I am sure I must have looked the same, heightening Pal’s terror. Was he thinking he had died and now was coming to the Great Judgment? Was I a demon, leading him to Lord Yama? Before this I had seen Pal only as a man, young perhaps, yet a man in control of his destiny. Now he was revealed for the boy he still was. No bravado could cover his terror.

"Ay-ee this my end like Shushok say. He say Lord Vajra-Bhairava punish Pal. Great Cow is wife of the Great Bull, do Dark One’s bidding. Now is time Lord Vajra-Bhairava punish!"

In his horror-filled face I glimpsed my own terror. I too must be on Vajra-Bhairava’s hit list. If Pal was to pay, why not me? Vajra-Bhairava was an everyday reality for Pal, but for me he was still half-fantasy, a creature clothed more in psyche’s ether than physic’s flesh. Again, I had come to the brink, yet rather than step out and over, I hesitated.

We just sat there and waited, another timeless time—there are so many in the Himalaya—knowing that the next moment might bring yet another wave of terror. This was the punishment Islam accorded adultery, death by stoning. How ironic if that was to be my fate. How would it come, quick, squashed to an unrecognizable pulp by a big one, or slow, a "death of a thousand cuts," buried under a pile of scree?

Something was very odd. The stream was rising at a very fast pace. When the tremor struck, we had been some ten feet from the bank. Now it was almost at our feet. Somewhere below, the falling rock must have dammed the chu. All that water, rushing down from above, quickly filled the nala. Things could happen fast—one minute a broiling stream, the next a lake. In this vertical world there could be no retreat. More than a dozen glaciers were feeding this chu. The volume was immense, even in this the driest of the seasons. How crazy it would be, drowning in the Himalaya. For what sin had drowning been the traditional punishment? I could only think of sorcery, and I didn’t think I was guilty of that—unless photography qualified. No more woolgathering! We had to get higher. We had to move and quickly.

Pal had yet to notice the water. He was too scared to do any thing but commune with his special patroness, Dolma, the White Tara, Savior from Death. Over and over, he kept chanting a mantra, so fuzzed by fear that it came only as a buzz. I tapped him on the shoulder.

"Jao, Pal, chalo!" He looked at me as if I was a raving lunatic, then returned to his mantra. "Pal look, we must go. Let’s get the…the fuck out of here."

I pointed down to the water, by now at our feet. Seeing the water snapped him out of whatever place he had been. Pal now realized this wasn’t a refuge but a trap. The fall of big rocks subsided and, though small trickles of scree continued, the rising waters were now the more immediate threat. I looked up the surrounding walls for some escape—a track we could take. Instead of relief, I found what only increased my horror. High on the wall were tell-tale horizontal lines, showing that these waters had visited those parts before and in the not too distant past.

What a joke that for some the mountain symbolizes stability. Mountains, and these in particular, are beings as alive as you or I. Life is change and never more than here—from below constant upthrust, from above downthrust of equal power. Earth reaches into the air. The air in turn, allied with water, answers back. At least that is how it seemed in Shadi Nala.

We ran for it, aiming to make the next bend. But what would be there? I could only hope that, as so often occurs in these highlands, narrow gorge would give way to open valley.

"Dadee, I much afraid. I much young life to finish. I must karma making."

"Fuck your karma," I heard myself say, in a harsh, seemingly alien voice. "Pal if you want to see Yosh again, you’d best get your ass up out of here." I doubt if he understood the words, but my meaning was clear. If I had used Swahili, it would have been clear.

"Ji, Dadee, ji, we go, chalo, chalo" He chanted his impenetrable mantra one more time, got up, and set off for the bend at a trot. Pal was a young man, and I had a hard time keeping up. The pack and cameras kept warring with each other, not to mention what they did to my body. My chest was heaving, and again I felt pressure. Was this a signal of something about to burst, or just normal reaction to altitude and exertion? This was a new worry, something else I now carried that I hadn’t before.

There was little choice but to go on. We climbed the rock debris, higher and higher, to the bend in the canyon. The Shadi wasn’t only narrow, but steep. It was here in a colder time that an icefall had stood. This was a good sign, for surely not far ahead would be another of those level places where the great glacier had rested—a place we too could rest.

By the time I got to the bend, I was covered in sweat; every muscle, every joint cried out in pained exhaustion. My hands were bleeding, scored by jagged rocks. I reflexively checked gear and saw to my horror that one of my cameras had fallen, unnoticed in the melee. God! It was such an old friend, and my 180-mm too. My first thought was to go back. That camera and I had been through so much, so much worse than this little jaunt. How could I leave it there alone, forever destined to remain in this hellish place? I got up, ready to go down, but from the elevation of the bend, I could see that where we had taken shelter was now deep in water, the top of the huge erratic barely breaking the surface. Even if I had had the balls to go back, there was little chance of finding my lost friend.

How fast the nala filled! It became deathly still; life was no longer dominated by the chu’s roar. Instead there was the rumble of a few falling rocks, the squawking of the ravens as they tried to settle themselves, the whistle of the rising wind. What had been a lean, fast-flowing stream was now a fat, sluggish lake. Far below, where the lake ended, I saw the tops of great boulders forming a natural dam. Soon the water would crest the top, reestablishing the flow as if the dam had never been. Sometime in the future, maybe near, maybe far, there would be another quake, just the smallest of tremors was all it would take, just enough to tip that equilibrium, and then with a tremendous rush the waters would descend, a moving wall that would sweep away all before it. How fortunate Phuktal was high on the cliff. But then no one in their right mind would build near the bed of a chu.

It was better than I could have hoped. As we rounded the bend, the narrow walls gave way to a wide valley, the meeting place of three major chus. Herds of great black yaks, sheep, and a few ponies grazed in lush pastures on distant, gently sloping hills. Well, maybe the pastures were not quite lush, nor the hills so gentle in their slope, and the herds moved restlessly, fearful of another quake. But compared to the rigors of Shadi Nala, this was a bucolic paradise. The valley reminded me of the one below Shingo-la, but bare of snow. The only snow in the immediate vicinity was to the southwest. There, rising above lower hills, was that great ridge with its seven dragons, the peaks between capped with snow.

"Look Dadee, look so many yak, so many luk (sheep), ra’ma (goats) sta (ponies) too!" I could see tears of joy welling in Pal’s eyes. He had been convinced his time had come. He was but a step away from Lord Yama and an icy or fiery hell. Yet now, instead of hell, he was in a place of earthly beasts, yaks and ponies, sheep and goats. What could be more heavenly for his Mongol heart? We looked for signs of Changpas, for where there were animals there would be men. On a hillock directly ahead, overlooking the confluence of the three streams, we could see a dark rebu, the coarsely woven yak wool tent. A curl of smoke evidenced habitation. This was surely a Changpas camp.

When we got to the rebu, we found it occupied by one old man. His face was creviced with wrinkles as deep as the nalas of this land. His teeth were all but gone, as his was hair. Yet oddly enough his black eyes had somehow kept their luster, shining clearly like a youth’s. I was surprised to find only him, since the tent was huge, made of many yards of black homespun yak wool—quite a large family could have called it home. The old one’s name was Dug. After some time, during which Pal labored to convince Dug I was neither demon nor thief, he finally revealed the others were away in the hills with the herds—those herds we had seen in the distance. The buchal had greatly disturbed the animals. Many had run away. Now the men were trying to regroup them. Dug said, with much show of regret, that he was too old to range with the herds anymore, but that his sons and grandsons brought him along to cook the food and cure their ills. Maybe the others would be back later that night or, if the animals had run off too far, maybe in several days. Time was of little matter. Only food supply and weather were important.

Dug told Pal that the animals had been acting strange for the last several days. As he was old, he had seen this many times before. Strange behavior always occurred before the great cow inside the earth moved. He wasn’t sure, but since they were fellow animals maybe the cow warned them. Anyway, they were still acting strange, the nearby ones all hunkered down, refusing to eat. He was convinced there would be more trouble, that what we had felt was only a warning rustle. Soon the cow would want to stand; she had been resting much too long. When she stood, we would know it.

After much further talk, during which we greedily consumed a great quantity of the old man’s solja, Pal suddenly let out a great sigh.

"Dadee, Dug say no one come from Thonde all summer. Other Changpa go up Shingri part way, but then come to very narrow place, more close together than Shadi. Dug call Copper Gate. He say gate keep back spirits who live beyond. This what lamas say, but his idea this gate protect spirits from lamas, from us too. Many rocks fall on this place. Maybe pushed by demons, maybe by saints. He say what matter? It same same. It death. Other Changpas much afraid. Changpas not want die. They turn back. He think not so good going there. He say to them not go. They not listen. Now he say we not go."

"But we can’t go back Pal. Tell him about lake. Tell him there’s no way down until the lake is gone."

"I say Dug, Shadi nala kherab. He know because here chu quiet, not like before. He say we lucky. Now cross over easy¼ go up Niri. That way Changpa come, from Rupshu far to east. On top is track, not to Rupshu, but Zanskar Valley and Padam. I think he right Dadee. Cow move again. This time maybe Dolma Tara too busy, too many other peoples watching, she not see Dadee and Pal."

Pal looked nervous. I thought this was because of Dug’s warning. A few minutes later the true cause became apparent.

"This Dug, very dangerous man Dadee. We not stay here long. He Bon-pa…he of old way…he have old power, power of darkness. Lamas warn. Lama say they too much in service of Mara, trade soul for evil power. Power not do good, not bring other men Dharma, but for own need. Power of Dug real Dadee. Bad but real! No problem if Dug like, but big problem if not like. We not go against Dug."

Geser’s last words rung in my head: "Remember No, cross over at the Thonde without fail. Whatever may happen, you must cross at Thonde, no matter how difficult. If you do this, then you will have all the protection that the Shushok can give…the Taras will be with you."

This had confused me. I replied, "I thought His Holiness was angry with me? Why would he want to protect me?"

"The Shushok cannot be angry, No. It is impossible for a Tulku to be angry. He feels only love, only compassion. However, to effect his purpose, he must assume more mortal emotions. Now that you have left the gomba, I am free to tell you. His Holiness knew you did not try to steal. Things happen that cannot be explained in terms of human understanding. The world, the real world, is not confined to such limits, just as it is not confined to Newton, or Einstein, nor to their successors. Those are only feeble attempts—just as our own Gelug tradition. Whatever happened to you in that chamber, and later in the visitor’s room…"

How did he know about that?

"…happened. The truth of it is not important, except in how it shapes your journey. When I met you, I saw your pain. I saw you had lost your way. I thought it a good idea for you to come to the gomba, to study our ways, to perhaps even become a lama. The Shushok, however, possesses greater wisdom, greater clarity of vision. He saw that in you is too much fire, a fire only you can hope to control. If this fire was controlled from without, it might be smothered, and with it you too. His Holiness, in great wisdom, knew the discipline of the gomba might kill the fire, but there is also the chance it could burn the gomba and all within. Better, he said, to put you back on the path, to free you from those things confusing you, to make you truly free."

God! I wanted to believe Geser. I wanted to believe I hadn’t blown another chance—perhaps my last—at being. But suspicion is a habit, and I was unable to free myself completely. I couldn’t accept that these men, holy or not, were acting free of personal interest.

"Why Thonde-la, Geserji?"

"Why not, No?" Then he had chanted a farewell mantra and without further words was off.

All that seemed ages ago, before the great cow shook the earth. Yes, it was becoming more comfortable to think of dragons, great cows, and all those life-drawn images that come to those who wander the land instead of books. Cows, even dragons, were something believable. They had their counterparts in real life, much more than continental plates floating on a sea of molten rock. Now that was a stretch.

Darkness fell. Pal and I were exhausted. Despite Pal’s misgiving, we accepted Dug’s hospitality. I thought it was a good thing, because we had no tent, and only a pot to cook over a dung fire— as if there had been anything to cook in that pot. After filling up on solja and rough barley nan, Dug showed us to an alcove where we were to bed down. He muttered something to Pal. Then, with Dug listening intently, Pal passed it to me.

"Dug say here drum not sound so loud. All night he hit drum; all night he pray. It same as lamas, but not same. Dug talk to old spirits in this land before Dharma. He say Sahib sleep, but he must speak to spirits. He must ask for watching us, not harm us, make the Great Cow sleep, not wake and shake ground."

I still had my sleeping bag—I would have sooner parted with my life—and I gave Pal my overstuffed down parka. I made sure there was plenty of space between us. Since that unsettling business with Atisa, I was uncertain whether to trust myself with Pal. After all, in the middle of the night when bodies huddled against the cold, when mind fogged and gender dissolved, wouldn’t those same demons arise. I took solace in the remaining charas. Now that I was free of the disapproving cleric, I could smoke to my heart’s content. I had much to ponder, much to decide. Should I do as the Shushok commanded, or should I listen to Pal, who was only voicing the immediate experience of this strange shaman? Shaman or no, who would know better, some distant monk, or a man who knew the ground ahead most intimately? It would be foolish not to take expert advice. Now that I think back, it is most amusing that I thought I had a choice.

Cushioned by my bag, I sat up, watching Dug across the fire. He was beginning to set up for his nocturnal vigil. How similar were his ritual preparations to other shamans I had known—that ancient Utah of the Kalash, the ayahuasca-tripping Jivaro in the jungle near Iquitos, or Crow Dog, the Oglalla healer of the South Dakota plains. They all radiated a sense of being a part, an extension of all that is. Around him, Dug gathered elements of nature, fire, water, earth, air, bits and pieces of totemic creatures. I could only wonder at the coincidence when I saw the ibex skull with great curving horns.

"Dug believes he of skya people. He lama of skya family. All Zanskaris have some animal inside. Those with skya must follow Dug. It old way, not Dharma. In Dug is skya, he say. Skya give power for sman. I too have belief. Lamas not like, but I not help. It part of me, like bone, like hair. I sta! When born, my mother bring shaman. He make ceremony. He tell mother, Pal of sta people. That why pony and I close. We talk…we understand each other talkings."

"What does Dug think I am, Pal? What’s my animal?"

After some animated conversation I got my answer. "Dug say he not yet know. Very hard tell ferenghi animals. Not knowing what animals live in Sahib’s land. Maybe Sahib no animal spirit. Maybe Sahib not from earth. Why else ferenghi sahibs treat earth so? Dug hear much what ferenghi do. Hear about great wars, machines killing crores of people. He to very far away…to Leh go. See how land for many lifetimes the same, now not same. He hear stories from Lhasa people, what Chini do to land, to people, even animals. How can one born from earth do such things to earth? Earth is Amma, our Mother. Even Nang’pa believe this true. All animals know earth Amma. All care for Amma, love Amma. When kill, they eating only what need, never more. Men from south, men from west, men from east, men from north, none have love for Amma. Maybe, because they go so far from Amma—even say to moon. Only people here in center, near place of birthing, only people holding inside animals, have love for Amma. It because Amma’s heart here under land. Soon great storm come. All not close to Amma die. Only here safe. Outside, storm sweep from Earth all who go too far from Amma’s heart. Dug survive, as all people not losing animal heart, not losing love of Amma. All others winds blowing off, for nothing hold down. This, Dadee, what Dug say. I not know what true. No matter what lama say, I glad am sta. I glad see through sta’s eyes, see earth as sta, have sta in heart. Maybe, I not blow away!"

There was no smirk, even in Pal’s eyes, to betray any hint of irony. Yes, here again was proof religion was like all collective knowledge; the longer we are at it, the more twisted our scheme. Yes, this Dug was a direct link, cutting through all the detritus of superstition, theology, philosophy, science…whatever…that keeps us from being in balance with life. Wasn’t this connectedness once the universal belief, a true extension of life writ large, only to be limited in civilization’s elaborations, traditions and rituals which only cloud reality? Dug’s simple approach echoed a time when to be part of life was enough; to breathe, to eat, and to be warm were wonderful blessings. Somewhere along the line, we got the idea there could be more. To get more, we power-tripped over all other life, symbolizing our supposed superiority in the shift from nurturing Earth Mother to the illusory power of a distant and abstract Sky Father. Rather than look to that place, from which we came, we began to look to where we might go. Rather than know what could be known, we sought the unknowable. Dug represented an older way, a way that, like the ice of the glaciers, had been many years in retreat. Yet like those glaciers, it is a way that must return, must that is, if life on Earth is to survive. The signs were everywhere in this land, proof the ice is like the sea. Its cycle of ebb and flow may be slower, measured in millennia rather than hours, but nevertheless certain.

Pal looked at me with annoyance, as if to say, "Isn’t the situation bad enough? Does Dadee have to make it even worse, blowing devil weed with this crazy sorcerer? I’ll never make it out of here alive."

I read his meaning and, for a moment, was almost intimidated. Then I thought fuck it! Who is the master and who the servant anyway? If I want to smoke with my new friend, why not? I really wished I could talk to this man, I mean direct, no filter of Pal between what he really thought and my understanding. How easy it was to dismiss such a mind, encased as it was in the feeble old man’s shell. Yet what wonders he had experienced in his long life. What truth he had found in his lonely vigils in these mountains. Yes, this man might be that door. Through Dug I might find escape from Maya’s veil.

I was getting to that place and so was the old man. Oh, for you skeptics, I am not suggesting we were communicating in the accepted sense of that term. It wasn’t that the sounds exchanged had precise, intentioned meaning. But there was little need for exactitude, for we were reaching the point when ideas are but noise obscuring a greater empathy lying in tone. I recalled that Balkh hujera with the charas pressers. I didn’t understand a word; yet when I listened through the words, I understood the meaning. It had been much the same with the wailing chant of the Kalash maids or those bhajans to Lord Krishna which I continued to play on my Walkman, long after tiring of the others. The feeling in Anuradha Paudwal’s voice, despite the abysmal quality of the recording, transcended all need for meaning. This was how I imagined Devara’s Anhad-Naad. The music of the Gods would need no translator. Its meaning is beauty, love, and surrender. These are understood by all life.

I really thought I was in Dug’s head. Life suddenly was so simple, bifurcated only into now and not now. Now was high; now was warm and dry; now was a full belly; now was good. Not now was only fantasy. I could trip on it if I wanted, but only in my mind. Only now was real.

Pal was getting increasingly annoyed. If heads were coming open, then I imagined he too had entered mine. Pal had life before him. He had family and friends waiting just over the hill, albeit a rather large one. I didn’t want the responsibility of dragging him down the same hole I was headed. I had lived life with more than my share of memories. I could sit in my cave, or wherever, and fill my hours with all those people and places of my past. Pal had little past and, in consequence, a burning desire for a future. His dream was to travel, to Leh, Manali, perhaps even to fabled Delhi. The present for him was just waiting for tomorrow—a few hours on hold before he could get going again.

Trying to divert Pal, while at the same time giving some hope, I asked whether we could obtain enough food from Dug for the longer journey. He could have quite rightly demanded that I ask my new buddy, since I now was able to communicate, but politely he relayed my question to Dug. That was fortunate, for while Dug and I could commune on topics of great emotion, the exchange of mere domestic detail was beyond either of our abilities.

Pal reported, "Food on trail. Many big Changpas camps on Niri, many yaks, many sheep and goats. We find sha (meat), zho (yogurt), maybe churpe’ (cheese), much oma (milk), much ghee. Even if this old man lie, even if no camps, way not long Dadee."

The smoke hit me and with it all that accompanying paranoia. I kept staring into Dug’s incongruously young eyes, looking for the dilemma’s answer. Come on old boy, I thought, give it up. I believed there must be some great storehouse of wisdom under his deeply etched brow. But Dug had already given it up. He had told me what to do. Now it was up to me to act on his wisdom.

All those "what if," "then if," "but if" postulations circled like vultures waiting to peck apart my brain. The argument went back and forth. My problem was I could see all sides, all points of view. In the end it was just too confusing. One thing I did know was I didn’t want to die under a pile of stones, almost anything was better than that.

Dug got up. Waving a three-fingered benediction in our direction, he retreated to a far corner of the tent. It was a curious gesture; his three middle fingers extended like a trident, the thumb and little finger circled below. Was this symbolized trident a clue to an ancient connection to Devara’s Shiva, or just his way of telling us to get stuffed? He sat down cross-legged on a ragged orange and pink Yarkandhi rug and began his ritual drumming. His back was to me as he faced the crude altar now adorned by the ibex skull. Light flickered from raw lumps of yak fat, the pungent smell only partially masked by musk-like incense. A small brazier of dung coals glowed between Dug and the altar, providing both spirits and devotee warmth. My brain swam in the unfamiliar rhythms and aromas. All that energy burned running for my life finally caught up with me. I still hadn’t made my decision. Better leave that for the morning, I thought, when your head is clear. You have other things to deal with tonight.

Briefly I struggled to get the dream back, to find out what I was supposed to do. It was too late. I was awake and the dream gone. Now fully awake, I turned toward the source of the noise that had awakened me. It was Dug ending his nocturnal vigil. He turned, noticing I was now awake.

"Jule Sahib, jule! Solja don, Sahib? Solja don?"

Although this ancient had been up the entire night, he looked none the worse. When I nodded my head, he sprang to his feet and went about the business of preparing solja.

Pal’s body was comforting and warm curled inside mine. For a moment the anxiety of the previous night returned, driving out further attempts to recapture the dream. Then with great relief, I realized he was lying outside my bag, fully clothed, and wrapped in the parka. The night had been cold, the condensation from our sleeping breaths forming a sheet of thin ice on the rebu’s roof. Apparently, there had been no reappearance of Atisa. Perhaps, I did feel some sort of love. I know I was starved for its giving. With Pal, however, it wasn’t the love of desire, possession, or any of those fucked emotions that reveal the truth of "friendship"—as it had been with Tara when I no longer possessed her. In this moment, so far from anything I might have once called reality, there was something beyond desire. Eros, Kama, whatever name you gave it, was only the snare. The essence of love was to love life, to see that life in another, and to love just because that other was alive.

I was overjoyed to find my release was real, desire gone. This might be temporary…that I had shot my wad as they say. Perhaps in a few days—or hours for that matter—those old urges would come calling. I wouldn’t worry about it now. I would savor this victory over myself, lasting or not. Then, for the most fleeting of moments, the dream, or more precisely its ghost, came back—the ibex that I saw as myself, the horse that was Pal, the water and terror.

Dug shook Pal awake, saying something to him in a scolding tone, that I could only interpret as kicking his ass for sleeping too long. Realizing where he was and what he had to do, Pal quickly came around.

"Dadee, Dug say go quickly. Now before sun too high, before ice above melt, before river go to deep." Then with a look of expectation bordering on despair, he asked, "We go east, yes Dadee? We go up Niri like Dug say?"

At that point, I had yet to make up my mind. I just wanted to go back to the dream, knowing that somewhere in all the jumbled images, emotions, sensations, was the answer. The answer was in me. I would know the right thing to do. But how to get down there to me, to hear me, through all the noise and confusion?

"Please Dadee, choose way. Dug say once cow moves, he move very big. Dug say, in night he feel cow move. Just little, not too big, but remember this like before, little move before waking. Dug say cow soon wake. Spirits talk in night."

We stood before a wide marshy place, the result of the braiding of many streams as they disgorge from Shingri and Niri nalas. The way Geser ordered lay on this side of the river, into the ever narrowing gorge which Dug referred to as the Copper Gate. Across the wetlands and braided streams lay the other trail, the one up the Niri. A little earlier, when we had gazed down on this scene from the hillock vantage of Dug’s tent, he voiced surprise at how low the waters were, even at this early hour.

"Dug say Amma be with us." Then Pal flushed. "Dug say, She opens private woman place; she give us way. He say, most time, stream much hard crossing, run very strong, even in time of little water. All places now land, before covered…to man’s chest…many places over head. Dug say, even for big Sahib like you. Many time Dug lose sheep, pony, even once yak. Dug right Dadee…only Lord Buddha and the Taras…not his Amma, protect."

There was just too much going for the Niri route. In the face of this blessing from the Gods, regardless of name, I thought I had little choice. The way looked easy enough, just cross the few ankle-deep streams. We could almost hop from one stony island to the next, all the way to the far bank several hundred yards away. At the place Dug identified as a ford, the bank was steep; the river ran a good twenty feet below. There were signs of heavy traffic. The opposite bank was much the same. Our survey from Dug’s camp was correct; it was no illusion. The water had receded to the barest trickle and, since the Changpas were willing to risk their precious herds, there could be no danger of quicksand.

Pal was overjoyed. He took off down the bank. Out of character, he gleefully splashed in the icy water. We were now buddies, and rightfully so; we shared the dangers of the trail equally. Once we were "back", wherever that back might be, we would revert to those roles society cast. Out in this wilderness there was no one looking, no face to maintain—no one except Dug, who from his tent watched our progress intently.

Inside, there was this strange¼ voice calling—traces of that dream perhaps. Outside, there was Pal frolicking in the waters, his love for life so evident. In a short while, maybe only a couple of days, he could be home, surrounded by friends and family, telling tall tales of his adventure with the crazy Amrikan Sahib.

From somewhere inside, the voice crossed the threshold of sensory awareness and grew increasingly louder. I knew something was wrong, but what it was I couldn’t tell. Yet because I sensed it, my curiosity was piqued. Maybe this caused my body to quiet, to listen more closely to the sounds I heard, or was it that the voice itself grew louder? The frequency was low, like a rumble. I seemed to hear the word "BEWARE." As I stepped forward, toward the edge of the bank, the rumble became slightly louder, imperceptibly moving past the boundary of my being.

Yet as I looked out over the valley any sense of apprehension subsided. The sun was just cresting the eastern ridges; a blue-lit world suddenly came alive with the sparkle of gold. I felt the sun’s welcome warmth on chilled skin. Yes, even the sun was beckoning me forward. Pal turned, flashing a smile with near perfect, white teeth. I smiled back. Truly this was one of those savoring times, a time that gave meaning to every trek, a time when all was right, everything in balance. It was moments such as this that made all the hassle, all the sweat…yes, and all the pain seem worth it.

Pal opened his mouth to say something. There was only the most terrible roar.

The ground shook beneath me. I thought I saw the distant peaks sway. I looked down. It was another of those stop-motion moments when denial takes precedence over reality. Not in a fluid motion, but in a series of jerky individual exposures; joy morphing, AT-AT-AT, into horror on Pal’s face. It was more than the shake, for out on the open plain there should have been no danger. And while for me there was none, Pal was in a quite different place, down the embankment, out in the stream. I turned to see what was so terrifying to Pal. A wall of sound hit me. To my horror, it wasn’t just sound, but a solid wall of water. It rushed out of the gorge’s mouth, spilling onto the flood plain between the banks. It must have traveled at a tremendous speed. Pal was only able to cover several feet before it engulfed him.

That was it. One moment Pal was with me, a companion, a buddy, a fellow human for whom I was developing deep feelings, the next he was gone. The mixture of mud, water, boulders, and silt carried him away. What had been nothing more than a rubble-filled riverbed, with only the slightest suggestion of a flowing stream, was now a raging torrent threatening to engulf the banks. Only a minute more and I too would have journeyed with him.

My mind raced with what to do. I wasn’t so quick to write off Pal. Dropping my pack, I ran along the bank. How could I run as fast as that water? Even though I was in little danger, out in the open and well above the flood crest, I was terrified. The ground continued to reverberate, the after-shocks pulsing through the alluvial fill. I had to save him. He couldn’t be gone, not just like that. For most of the time Pal had been with me, he had remained on the periphery of my awareness. Oh, I had thought about him on the Shingo, but not in the way I was coming to think of him now. Then he was just a bad servant, a hassle, a problem. I knew little about him, other than I had hired his ponies to carry my saman. Now I had come to see him not only as pony-wala, but also as an equal. Pal was someone on whom I could depend, and not just for service. Without quite realizing it, I had come to look on him as a friend as well. No, he couldn’t just disappear.

Slowly it hit me that he had done just that. Had Nam receded so far into my past that I had forgotten this was life; one moment a living breathing, feeling being with memories, desires, plans, ideas, a being that could see beauty, know fear, give joy, inflict pain, then wasted, an inert pile, puddle, or just nothing at all. Where had Pal gone? I collapsed on the ground. A big bubble of grief burst inside. I was no longer terrified, although the ground continued to shake. I was too filled by sorrow. I could no longer hold back. Tears came, as had the waters from above. They flooded over me, blotting out all.

I had spent a lifetime extricating myself from things, from people. I had conned myself into believing I needed nothing, no one, yet a big part of me knew it was a shuck. I had been conditioned from childhood, that moment when I heard Father wasn’t coming home, to expect such abrupt endings, to expect the worst and not build on others. How readily I had seized upon a philosophy of "coming and leaving alone," of a bridge-like world. In shielding myself from what I saw as inevitable, I forgot all the time between the beginning and the end. Now I had to face up to my own self-fulfilled prophecy. Now I was alone, with only what my two legs, my back, my shoulders could carry. Oh yes, and then there was that load in my head, the biggest burden of them all.

I picked myself off the ground. You are too old for tears now my boy…things to do, things to do. Orienting myself, I found I was directly below Dug’s hillock. I looked up to see his trident-like wave. "Jao, Sahib, jao!" He had that big toothless grin which threatened to crack wide his withered face; mirth filled his clear eyes.

"Jao, Sahib!" he repeated pointing neither east, nor to the narrow opening of the gorge, but to a faint track that rose almost vertically over the western ridge.

Why hadn’t he shown us that way before? My mind was reeling. I could have believed anything. What was that old saying, whom the Gods wish to destroy they first drive mad? Was this some sophomoric plot by minor deities to slowly strip me of life—like children picking the wings and legs off a fly? Pal had warned of Dug’s powers. I had seen only an old, half-crazed man. Could he possess the power to bring down the flood?

I freaked, to say the least. But any temptation I might have had to remain, to collect my wits, was gone. I feared what might lie ahead no more than I feared this man who, I now believed, was a sorcerer. A great cackle came from Dug. It was strange, and though I expected it to be malicious, it wasn’t. Rather, it was marked by innocence, like a child who seeing the foolishness of others laughs freely, unconstrained by propriety. Though he was some distance away, I thought I could see my very fear come true. The grin continued to spread across his face, stretching so wide it split the parchment like skin. Underneath was revealed a hideous demon visage, complete with the third eye and tiger fangs, that fearful depiction of Mara. There was no romance now, no longing to meet. A great wave of fear washed over me, as surely as the flood had Pal. I wanted desperately to go back, to Geser, to Phuktal, even to Gul. Yet the way to those refuges was blocked. Then I remembered what I was supposed to do, what the dream had ordained. Fighting to ignore the Dug-Mara devil above, I fled toward Thonde-la.

In the lowest sector of the bhavachakra, portrayed to either side of Lord Yama, are two hells. In one, the sinners suffer the tortures of fire, in the other those of ice. I had already visited the former in Phuktal, so it was to the latter that I would now go. Yet even my way to that hell wasn’t to be easy. As I approached the mouth of the Shingri gorge, Dug’s Copper Gate, I saw to my discomfiture that there was no way. The swollen river now coursed through vertical rock walls. The track along the riverbank was deep under water. If the gate was locked, the only recourse was to scale the wall. I remembered those talon-like fingers of Dug, pointing up over the ridge. At the time, not all the hot hounds of hell nipping at my heels could have driven me to take his route. Remember that, at the time, I fully believed his machinations had caused Pal’s death.

But was it Dug’s fault? He had warned us not to continue on our way. What if we had continued? What if we had both entered the Gate just at the moment of the flood? If I looked beyond my immediate sorrow, I could see that Dug had saved my life, but at such a price. Pal had his whole life before him. I had spent most of mine. After all, I had come here to die—despite my procrastination. Why didn’t I go first into the riverbed? I liked to lead. I wanted to feel I was breaking new ground. That is hard if you are looking up someone else’s ass, eating someone else’s dust. But at that very moment when Pal went ahead, I had been overcome by such harmony that I lingered, only if to savor the pleasure a moment more. That moment made all the difference.

The ridge formed one of the Gate’s flanking walls. I had to snake back and forth up the steep incline, making the climb extremely tedious. This was a "four point" trail, where hands, as well as feet, were required. After about an hour of climbing I hit snow. Thickening clouds now covered the sun, which earlier had shown such promise. The air was cold. I saw my breath and felt ice on my beard. I regretted I hadn’t brought more clothing. Much of what I had went with Pal. Then a great guilty feeling went through me. How could I snivel over this when Pal had lost his life?

All the signs were in place. You could smell it in the air. STORM! SNOW! BARF! It was going to be the Shingo-la all over again. I began to think some storm god must protect these passes, for it seemed a storm hit every time I got close to one. Lower on the trail, I had seen the track take a definite turn down—local folks don’t climb higher than is absolutely necessary; they know who dwells on the mountaintop. But I couldn’t see the bottom or the trail’s condition once there. Therefore, I decided to continue on what had dwindled into the barest goat track.

I climbed for the rest of the day. There was no choice, but to keep moving. My ultimate pass, fantasized in Kobe, was getting close, but as before I just couldn’t let go. Oh, I kept thinking, how about this spot, old man? This is a good place to put down. Something kept goading me upward, conning me into wanting to go just a little higher before I gave in. Every time I reached what I thought would be the crest with view I could go out on, it was only to see another rise before me.

Finally, I reached a point where, without wings, I could go no higher. It was near sunset. As I crested the ridge, a rose-tinted panorama lay before me. For a moment, the magnificence of the scene drove out all the horror of the day, all the cold, all the fear. I forgot I was on an exposed ridge, without food or shelter. I forgot night was near, and that I might not see tomorrow. Instead the awesome beauty of a moonscape painted with ember-glow ice and snow overwhelmed me. I could see forever, with wave after wave of peaks stretching to all points of the compass. The monsoon-driven storm hadn’t yet blotted out the northwestern sky, and between two peaks the sun was setting, forming a trail of molten gold up the Shingri. It was there, in this notch at the top of that radiant trail, the Thonde-la lay. The sun set directly behind the pass teasing my mind with yet another possible omen. There are so many omens when you are in extremis. My eye traced the thin shimmering stream downward into a bowl-like valley. This bowl was the work of a great glacier that once dwelled there. Now this giant had shrunk and splintered, retreating into the seven small hanging glaciers I had seen on my map. On paper they seemed so insignificant, little blotches of blue-lined white in a sea of browns. Now in the backlight of alpenglow, they appeared like a flight of fiery, winged dragons, hovering over the purpled valley. They wait for a destined morrow to leave their frozen aeries and reclaim the land.

The view hit me like a Zen master’s knock, blasting apart the Maya and granting, if only for the briefest of moments, a glimpse of reality. All those bits and pieces I had been struggling with throughout the day suddenly came together.

I realized what had happened. The lie of the land, and my experience of the day before, made it clear. It was neither Dug’s witchcraft, Vajra-Bhairava, Yama, nor Mara that caused Pal’s death. The cause was very natural to these mountains. Earlier tremors must have closed the bottleneck formed by the gorge, loosening the debris from the steep nala walls, dumping it by the ton into the gap. Then the big tremor, the one which had struck that morning, released the whole mess and…. Of course, that didn’t explain why I was here and not some piece of flotsam down the Niri.

It was cold as all the frozen hells that night. I lucked into a natural cairn of stones. After some rearranging, I was able to construct enough of a wall to partly shield me from the ferocious wind. There was no question of food. Dug’s benefice, the stack of chapati and rough lump of churpe’, had gone with Pal. Grim images of where that food and Pal might be filled my mind. No matter how bad things were for me, at least I was alive, at least there was a chance I would see the sun rise the next morning, watching its light play on the snow-covered hills. Then it came to me again, that queasy, disorienting feeling, my dogged companion since those first cherry weeks in Nam. How could I be so sure I was alive. Maybe, I too had died. I no longer had any familiar point of reference to locate life. It was dark, cold, only the wind was living, only the wind could serve as an other.

I thought myself lucky it didn’t snow, but I might have been warmer if it had. Hunkered down among the rocks, I gathered my down bag around me, partially covering it with a now near-useless rain parka in an attempt to block the wind. At first I shivered violently, but gradually, trapped by the down, the slight warmth in my body began to accumulate. If I could keep the down dry, preserve its insulation, then I would get through the night. I found a half bar of Amul in the depths of my pack. Even more welcome was the half-full package of biscuit. There again was that rosy, plump-cheeked baby, staring out at me from the wrapper. Had this savage land ever seen such a child. I ate half the chocolate and a few of the biscuits. These supplies would have to last until Thonde Gomba, and there was no telling how long it might take to reach there. Although I had seen the pass at dusk, it was still many, many weary hours away. Refueled by the sucrose and comforted by the down, my shivering diminished to a point where sleep came.

I was awake…but was I? All about me was white fog. The wind had died; all was still. Morning was fast approaching. When I fell asleep there had been total darkness. Now, although I could still see almost nothing, the air glowed with a misty whiteness. Clouds, which yesterday were building to the south, finally caught me. The night before I had thought, if only I can make it to the other side of this darkness, if only I can make it through until morning. Then it will be just a walk up the col and over the ridge down to Thonde Gomba. I knew it would be a tough climb, but nothing more than a bit of sweat. I could see the route to the top; it promised little exposure. But I hadn’t figured on whiteout. It could last a few moments, hours, or linger for days. The moments I could spare, the hours maybe, but not the days. The remaining chocolate and biscuit were hardly a breakfast, let alone enough to carry me more than a day. I could go quite some time without food, if all I had to do was exist. I had before, but sitting on my ass in a prison cell or a flophouse in Delhi was much different from this. There was also a water problem. I was thirsty as hell. Up on the top there was no water, except for a dusting of snow. I had to move.

I am prone to trust my judgment when it comes to direction. I thought I could figure out the lie of the pass from the orientation of nearby stones. Yes, it is that way, over the big gneiss with the sparkles of mica. If I headed in that direction, I would eventually come across the Shingri. Then it would be a simple matter of following the course of the stream. By the time I got up the slope, the fog will have cleared away. Besides, this was a track others had taken. There must be some trail sign, some indication of human passage.

The fog didn’t lift as quickly as I had hoped. At times, I almost packed it in. I couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of me. If I had felt lost the night before, I felt all the more so now. There was only this cold, damp clinging whiteness. I was soaked through, both from my own perspiration and the mist. If I stopped to rest, uncontrollable shivering soon overcame me. I had to keep moving, but no idea where. I began to feel I was playing hide-and-seek with Mara. Sporadically, from behind this hillock or that rock, I would see a face, a hand, shoulder, leg, something just enough to let me know I wasn’t alone.

I chalked this up to hallucination. It was, after all, the first time on the trek I had been really alone. There was no one expecting me, no one who would come looking for me. Oh, there was Gul and Ravi, but what could I hope from them. After a few days, Yosh would reach them. They would wait a few more days; I still owed them money, and that was with me. Eventually, they would grow impatient. Then they might come looking. And there was also Yosh’s love for Pal. He wouldn’t let him just disappear would he? Yes, he would come, even if Gul refused. But most likely Gul would come—if nothing more than to pick my carcass. That is what they would find. Yes, they would all come, no one wishing to miss out on their share.

I was totally alone. My mind reacted, denying solitude, creating this malevolent playmate to goad me on. That was all. It was nothing but a hallucination.

As the day wore on, the fog showed no sign of lifting. I became increasingly desperate. I reached the nala’s bottom. Now I had to choose the direction for my next ascent. I made several false starts, stumbling on small streams ending in springs. I kept running a mental overview of the terrain, seeing those seven glaciers with their seven streams. The most northern, the one on the right, was the source of the Shingri; it was up this chu that the path to the Thonde-la lay. I had no idea, however, where I was in this valley. If I went up a stream, I had six out of seven chances of being wrong, more if you took the springs into account. Worse yet, not finding the real pass, I might out of desperation force my way over a false pass, into the vast mountain wilderness lying beyond the ridge.

Had I been equipped, as I should have been, it would have been a simple matter of making camp and waiting for the fog to lift. Just brew a nice cup of chai, maybe a little rib-sticking dal-bhaat, smoke a joint to relax, and crawl into the tent for a nice snooze. But I wasn’t. Cold, wet, hungry, and alone, I had absolutely no idea which way to go. Time was running out. My mind was losing all grasp. The only way I knew there still was a mind, that there was still a me, was from the fear and discomfort. I exist because I feel; I am because I fear. It was then those illusory hints of Mara became all too real.

"Hey! Yes, you! I told you we’ve some unfinished business. Wasn’t it your idea to come here to visit me? Didn’t you do everything you could to make this possible? Look how far you came and not only once either. Each time you’ve come closer, closer, each time squirreling up your puny little courage, almost ready to let go, then running back to what you think is your life, to what you think is reality. Don’t you know I’m the only reality. I wait for all to come to me. How many have you known that have come to me? Pal came, even though he wasn’t ready. But then you know all about that. You tangled your web with his, and he took the fall. If it hadn’t been for you, would he be where he is now?"

I saw it so clearly, as if the quarter century, separating this now from that then, had evaporated into nothingness. It was a mutilated body, but of another young man, maybe even younger than Pal. There was even a resemblance, the same thick black hair, high cheekbones, the same Asian eyes. I had been in country for several months—long enough at least so that I was beginning to be salty.

One night, out on some godforsaken firebase’s perimeter with nothing better to do, I got blasted with some grunts. I mean really stoned on a combination of J. Walker and some die-no-might weed. This, of course, wasn’t uncommon. There were so many similar nights—in between rare moments of wacko were lifetimes of boredom. The combination of weed, booze, and bottled-up fear can make for a devilish high. We had one of those ancient fifty-caliber jobies, efficient relics from Father’s war. It spit out a hard one the size of your thumb for a good mile or more, if the angle was right. When we loaded it up with tracers…what a show! Anyway, that night we decided to play, doing a great job chewing up the neighborhood…and any neighbor in it. What a gas! Watching that stream of light reminded me of headlights on the Golden Gate. How many times had I driven up on the Headlands with some bird, staring at the lights while my hands engaged in that age-old game? But that is another tale. Anyway I just got firing, and all the shit I was in dissolved; I was back in San Francisco. Man, I didn’t even hear the sucker—and it was loud.

The next morning, I saw the results of my handiwork. There in the reeds, on the bank of the Quan’s muddy ooze, were the twisted remains of what had been just a few hours before a young man. In that crazy world, he could have been a farm boy, VC, or even NVA regular. Was he sneaking up on our position or just returning home after work in the fields? I will never know. What he had been, or what he had done, was of little matter. Now he was only a mangled, waterlogged leather sack. He was as I now imagined Pal to be. Of course there had been no inquiry, nothing to inquire into. Just another dead Slope, a body for the count! I guess I hadn’t even inquired into my own guilt. I mean, he could have been VC; it could have been my life or his…you know…all that good shit we rationalize. But something…karma…was watching, recording, storing up information inside. Maybe I didn’t have to answer the question at the time; maybe I didn’t have to come up with a reason why this fucker should buy it. But one day I would. I was wrong. I hadn’t "left the Quan forever." How could I? The Quan was in me; its ooze will flow through my veins as long as there is a "me."

Yes, it was cold and seemed to be getting colder. At times, the enveloping fog teased, lifting the veil to show a glimpse of an unknown peak, a distant pasture, a stream. Even the sun penetrated for brief moments. Yet without an idea of the time, I couldn’t guess its direction.

After that image of Pal…and the subsequent trip down memory lane…I tried not to think. Just keep going. Put all energy into moving one foot in front of the other. My goal wasn’t so much to get somewhere, but to stop and rest meant only another interlude with Mara. The ground was so barren, scree dusted by snow and ice, treeless, scarcely any life at all. This was truly a high desert. Maybe, I was now higher than 16,000. All I knew for sure was that it was getting mighty hard to breathe. Keep going! Keep going! The air was so dry; the snow like sand, blowing in little whirlwinds, swirling up into the white nothingness.

I grew even more tired. My guard began to slip. Again I heard that voice.

"This way Sahib, just keep climbing. Remember what you saw on the ridge. Why else climb high if not to see what lies below? Remember how the land lay. Just take those bits and pieces I show you. Put them together into a picture, into a map. Just trust me! Just trust yourself! Don’t worry about what you lack. Use what you have. I’m not here to harm you."

Should I trust this voice? It seemed friendly enough. But was it guiding me across the pass, or into to another cul de sac of past misdeeds? The truth was I had nothing left to lose. If not the voice then what? If I didn’t get over the top by nightfall, it would make little difference. Okay, I thought, trying to calm myself, I will do as the voice says. I will think about what I have seen, about those glimpses of peaks and streams, that glacial snout, that odd clump of boulders. I had seen all of those from the ridge. If I could just get back to that view, just remember exactly what was where. That would be better than nothing, better than hopelessness. No, don’t seek what isn’t there, just trust the old Gestalt, let those bits and pieces float before your mind, let your subconscious find the pattern. Trust yourself! Trust Mara!

Gradually, my mind accepted the burden, giving relief to my legs, lungs, back, and heart. I would will myself over the fucking mountain. There was no other choice. No choice except to fall to Mara’s embrace, to surrendered. Yet I was still unready.

There were many more such moments, mind struggling with matter, Mara lying somewhere just outside, just beyond, just enough to nudge me onward. Finally, by late afternoon a wind rose from the West, driving the clouds before it. I found myself about a quarter mile from the pass, high up on the slope, near the final bend of the Shingri. There was no question it was the pass, for there was the pile of mani, complete with dozens of ragged prayer flags, snapping in the rising wind. As I looked down slope, I could make out part of my trail, a thin line that wandered drunkenly across the valley. I must have covered at least twice the distance needed, but in the end I hadn’t done too badly. Despite the approaching night, my goal was in sight. I was almost at the same height as the pass itself. All I had to do was walk across the slope to the notch and down the other side.

I made top just at sunset, just in time to see the entire Zanskar Valley lit by the slanting light. It must have been another one of those mind-blowing vistas, except my mind was already so blown I can’t recall very much. Somewhere I found the strength to take a picture. I was down to two cameras, still fastened securely around my neck. But all those things that had been in my pockets? Somehow the vest felt lighter and, as I checked, I noticed that I had lost more of my old friends. They were, most likely, lying back along the trail, maybe not far, but they might as well have been on the moon. I do remember looking out to the northwest and seeing the arc of the Great Himalaya with peaks like Brahma, Sickle Moon, Nun Kun, standing in the distance, great white sails against the purple and pink-slashed mackerel sky. Despite all these beauties, the most lasting thing remembered was looking down to see the gomba perched above the distant plain…then the feeling of my heart leaping into my throat when I saw the trail downward. The way to the Thonde-la from Phuktal had been long and gradual, like a staircase. Now the all that altitude fell abruptly away to the plain, a vertical mile below.