Nepal 1993

I zipped my parka to the chin as the sun lowered behind a cloud fringed in orange. We had left the rhododendron glens behind and climbed 1200 feet through scrub juniper on a trail high above the Dudh Kosi ( Milk River). Although we had only hiked three hours, we would acclimate in the yak settlement at Machhermo, 14,468 feet. The long-haired animals with massive chests, curved horns and bushy tails were grazing with tongues especially designed to crop very short material. Aware of their intractable nature, we skirted the herd and entered the stone hut behind our guide D. B who tapped the header reminding us to duck under the doorway designed to keep out harmful spirits too stiff to bend low. After climbing a steep, twisting stairway to the second floor, we crouched through another entrance.

D. B. bowed slightly with his hands pressed together and murmured "Namaste." The only shelter in the valley, the owner had supplied his hut with coke, bottled water, and beer carried on porters' backs 21 days from Kathmandu. The higher we climbed, the greater the price, but I was so cold and dehydrated that I didn't care what it cost. Sitting on the dung/mud floor, I cupped both hands around a cup of hot tea for warmth and watched hearth smoke spiral upwards and fan out along the ceiling creating an eye-burning, lung-searing cloud. Choking, I glanced at D. B. with watery eyes.

"The smoke keeps evil spirits away," he explained. "And mice and fleas."

Understanding now why much of the population suffered from respiratory disease, I tried to ignore the smoke-induced nausea by smiling at three young children huddled on a small platform where the family slept. They peered around each other like scared rabbits ready to bolt at my first movement. Soon the aroma wafting from the large black pot on the stone hearth reminded me how hungry I was. We dined on thukpa, a Sherpa stew, and chapattis. It took every bit of cultural propriety I had to accept the tortilla-like bread when the yak herder pulled it right from the dung coals and plopped it onto my plate quite pleased with his offering.

Having ventured briefly to our below-zero sleeping room, we decided smoke was more bearable than cold and remained seated by the hearth inhaling yak dung fumes. Again D. B. translated as the herder asked whether it was true that Nepal rested on the back of a giant fish. And when the fish shook, the ground trembled and broke. He also wanted to know why there was a black sky and a blue sky and what were the bright lights that ran across it. I explained satellites and earthquakes as best I could, not wanting to insult him. If I had been born high in these hills with no opportunity for an education, I would know no more than he.

We could no longer put off going to bed. Down one stairway and up another into the adjacent building, we entered a room containing nothing but a wooden platform along the wall. Our sleeping bags flush together, Fred and I shared body heat while D. B. and four porters slept piled together with him being the only one in possession of a bag we had given him. The other Sherpas had but one light blanket among them. Around midnight, the many cups of tea and stew could no longer be ignored. I'd been shivering in my bag all night; out of it, I would surely freeze to death. I unzipped, crawled out, and reached for my hiking boots and flashlight. The damn thing wouldn't turn on and my situation was growing desperate. In a pitch black room, I blindly made my way past a mound of snoring Sherpas, found the door, forgot to duck and banged my head. Groping my way down the steep, winding staircase, I eventually found the outer door and opened it trying not to wake the herder's family. The cold hit me in the face, searing all the way down my throat. As I stepped outside, I heard low resonating grunts and felt wet yak breath brush against my arm. The unruly beasts had congregated in a hairy, impenetrable mass and weren't about to move. I'd heard of them goring trekkers with their large horns, but I wasn't about to empty my bladder this close to the hut. We were at a standoff: ten unruly yaks versus one female tourist. I wasn't going to let them intimidate me. I smacked the nearest one on the rump and yelled so loud that it startled and moved just enough to let me through. Afterwards, strolling back, I flapped my arms against my sides thinking, "You know what worries me most is that I'm getting used to this!"

In the spring of 2003 the International Porter Protection Group built a shelter and rescue center for porters at Machhermo. They have just endorsed my book Beyond the Summit as going right to the porter's life. www.beyondthesummit-novel.com