Top of the world

A story of the time I was not as young and fit as I thought I was.

KelDud
KelDud
Jul 10, 2017 · 4 min read

In Nepal, we work 6 days a week, with only Saturday left to ourselves. These days are reserved for all things I deem most sacred: laying around, watching movies, ordering food to go from the local shack, being useless.

But this Saturday was different.

Surkhet is a small valley surrounded by mountains on all sides. When I first arrived, I hardly noticed their presence, tucked away cozily under a thick blanket of dust and smog. Here is a picture of a typical, dusty day.

When the rains came and pulled the dust from the sky, I was left in awe. Have these mountains been here all along?

To the North is the largest of them all. Even when the dust clears, it’s peak is often hidden by the clouds. And yet, on this particular Saturday, the rain had stopped and the skies were clear, and the kids had the peak in their sights.

Take us on a hike, they said. It will be fun, they said.

And so we embarked at 9:30 AM — which was an hour late since herding kids is much like herding cats — and I was in the lead. I felt good and strong.

Hour one passed. Around us, as ground turned from rocky road to an increasingly steep and narrow path, the vegetation changed as well. It became quieter, the air felt cleaner. We clung to our water bottles and bananas, the kids singing a mix of Nepali tunes and Justin Bieber.

Hour two passed. I no longer felt good and strong. The path had became all but a narrow, steep opening between grass and trees and rocks, and sometimes disappeared altogther. Frogs and snails and spiders and creatures calling in the distance. I didn’t ask what creatures they were. Each step was like a rung on a ladder and a knife to my chest. Up and up and up we climbed.

Hour three passed. We were now surrounded by pine trees. Where did they come from? Pine needles carpeted the ground and completely silenced the nature around us. All we could hear was the occational laughter of kids, falling rocks, and my constant and desperate panting for air. There was no air.

Hour four passed. How were the kids managing this? How were the other volunteers? I was now bringing up the rear. Making sure no kids fell behind, I said.

And then, finally, we emerged from the forrest and left the devil’s pathway behind us. I thanked the god of the mountains for releasing me.

We stopped to catch our breath and that’s when I noticed: my god the view.

We were on the edge of the mountain, surrounded by bright green rice paddies and even brighter green corn fields — everything seemingly illuminated from within. The glowing greens only broke for the occasional mud house or cow pen, which hung precariously on the edge, among the clouds. Here I would share a picture, but I fear nothing would do it justice (and at that moment I was too tired to whip out the phone).

We continued along the road until we came to the top of the mountain, marked by a telephone tower and a little shack restaurant. We (read: I) collapsed on the ground. The shop keeper brought us water and made us noodles with eggs. The kids played music. We were all abuzz with excitement and accomplishment. Here are pictures to prove I made it.

We all sat in silence for a long time, surveying our valley. It was beautiful and small and remote and lovely, hidden away from the rest of the world.

The entire journey there any back would end up taking over 6 hours. But reaching the summit with the kids was worth it all.

In that moment I noticed that it had not rained all day, the sky was clear, the kids were momentarily still and quiet. We had both conquered and been humbled by the mountain, and we held each others hands.

Sacred Saturdays, indeed.

    KelDud

    Written by

    KelDud

    Stories for my family.

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