Himalayan Trek Day 1

We are at camp, our tents rested on spongy green- not even grass. How grass used to be: a sweet mix of clover, wild ground cover, flowering plants, wild-leaf clumps and moss. It's so springy! I walked "naked feet" half the way up and it was healing, for the bones and muscles, skin, tendons, heart, soul and memory. Clambering up the path, my soles passed through meadows, over small stones, rounded rocks, cow and deer shit, boulders, streams, sinking into bogs and mud. I thought upon arrival at our 3750 meter spot, I'd have to put on my shoes and Smartwools, but the thick soil is still holding the morning sun's heat.

Horses carried our bigger personal gear, plus food and tents and such. We felt so bad for them, heaving sides, as they trod past us on the path. But now they surround the camp, free. No blankets, halters, weights, prods or people. Some are rolling in the mud, others scratching their backs on boulders, two raced each other down the mountain slope and all are tasting the sweet grasses, periodically snorting and shaking their manes. Maybe it's not such a bad job after all.

The hike up was wonderfully steep and full of wildflowers, tiny strawberries too- tart and crunchy- all so close as we leaned into the hillsides. Geno, our lovely Dutch companion, starting putting white flowers in her hair and I tucked some behind my ears. Then I noticed she had a red one and I thought I'd like some color too. We really started a collection and she challenged me a competition. It was great fun. The guide jumped in and gathers as many new ones as possible, splitting them between us. Blue, red, yellow, purple, white, orange. They wilted slowly, tucked into our hair ties and behind our ears and I laid a flower graveyard by our tent when we arrived at camp. Still colorful, just smaller.

Land of the clouds. Drips and fog are rolling in and out, trading blue sky, for puffy mountain back-drops, for full grey cover. We keep taking pictures of the same scene, ever different by the clouds' movements. 200 pictures of a steep flowered meadow, fog, blue sky or mountains. Jefferson and I traded tricked photography- jumping and cartwheels.

The fog has rolled in, thickly now, so that I can't see camp from this rock, just hear the snowmelt waterfalls, spilling down the valley walls, forming small streams and deepening the peat. Night will be here in a few hours, the sun slipping behind the clouds, behind snow-capped peaks. I'll be happy for guitar and muffled sleep.