Sea to Sky and Peak to Peak

Storms have been rolling through Vancouver during the past week, so I thought I’d share two recent local adventures before fall turns to winter.

The Sea to Sky and Peak to Peak experiences sweep you up, down and all around the mountains between Squamish and Whistler, B.C. Both outings take you right into the wilderness within one to two hours of the city.

The Sea to Sky Gondola lifts off from Basecamp (at sea level) to the Summit Lodge (885 meters) in about ten minutes. I made the trip on a dreary day, but the views from the top were still vast and breathtaking — especially from the suspension bridge. If you’re really up for a challenge, you can bypass the gondola and go by foot from the parking lot to the Summit Lodge. Three viewing platforms are within easy walking distance from the lodge and a trail network leads to the surrounding mountains beyond.

Just up the highway from the Sea to Sky Gondola, the Peak to Peak Experience takes you from Whistler Village to the Top of the World Summit, across the valley to Blackcomb on the Peak to Peak Gondola and back down to the village on two final chairlifts. I made this journey on a much sunnier day and it was an absolute blast to see the resort in a season other than winter, without my ski goggles. Getting to the Top of the World Summit is a precarious ride past cliff faces and up steep slopes still covered in ice from last season. But the view from the top is spectacular.

Then the fun really begins — going back down on the Peak Express chairlift. Not for the faint of heart or fearful of heights!

At the bottom of the Peak Express, transfer to the Peak to Peak Gondola — a massive operation that takes you all the way across the valley between Whistler and Blackcomb.

I looked for bears in the riverbed below. According to a guide who was riding in our gondola, they are often visible — about 60 bears live around Whistler/Blackcomb. I didn’t see any of them but the bird’s eye view of the river through the trees was unexpectedly cool.

After a pit-stop at the Rendezvous for a glass of wine with my hiking buddy, it was time to descend back to the village, above grassy slopes and wildflowers.

On a sunny summer day, the Peak to Peak is a fantastic mountain adventure. With a day pass, you can ride the lifts either direction, as many times as you want. But you’ll have to wait until next year … the Peak to Peak experience is closed for the season and the snow has arrived!

Miscellaneous Photography

Road Trip Oman: Nizwa and Final Thoughts

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We arrived in Nizwa last night after a long day exploring Jebel Shams and the aged village of Misfat Al Abriyeen. Today is our last full day in Oman. We start early, meandering the narrow streets surrounding downtown Nizwa. Crumbling stone walls and newly constructed homes co-exist amidst an unlikely landscape of palm trees. As we’ve seen over the past 10 days, life in Oman is an illustration of extremes — the bounty of the ocean next to the vacancy of the desert; the stark mountains next to the lush palm groves of the wadis. There is hardly any middle ground. Even the middle of the day is a barren stretch of time deserted by everything but the sun.

We look for a place to get coffee — a comfort of home in a foreign town. But as we walk around Nizwa, we’re reminded again that Oman exists for itself and not for its visitors. Not that it’s unfriendly — we’ve been welcomed and treated well everywhere we’ve been. But it’s what we don’t find here in Nizwa — cafés full of tourists, menus in four languages, guides selling tours, vendors competing for attention — that shows Oman’s success at maintaining its authenticity. Even though a cappuccino would be really nice right now, it’s far nicer to find a place holding onto its identity, sharing itself but not giving itself away. No coffee, no problem. I think it’s my own expectation that’s misplaced here. In Oman, coffee is meant to be shared among people rather than bought for oneself.

We come to the entrance of Nizwa Fort, built in the middle of the 17th century and recently restored in the 1980s. Many centuries ago Nizwa was Oman’s capital, located at the crossroads of caravan routes. The fort was built to protect the city and house its leaders. Muscat has since become Oman’s center of government and trade but Nizwa remains significant for its character and history.

The fort is a surprising maze of staircases and rooms, including a tiny prison — a stuffy, windowless den. We eventually find our way to the central tower. Evidence of a brutal war tactic remains. Above each wooden door to the tower there’s a hole where boiling oil or date syrup could be poured over incoming enemies.

The tower itself measures 45 meters in diameter. We climb one of the side staircases to a panoramic view of Nizwa and the surrounding mountains.

The souk and streets around the fort hold the bounty of Nizwa — beautiful clay pots, brass tea pots, khanjars so emblematic of Oman and, of course, everything related to frankincense — from burners to resin. The Boswellia tree, native to Oman and a few countries nearby, emits sap when the bark is “striped”. This tree sap hardens into resin and carries a distinct aroma. The resin can be burned, distilled into oil and even eaten (with some interesting cancer- and depression-fighting capabilities of note). When I arrived in Oman I had never smelled frankincense but it has infused our time here like a trail through a forest. Whether it’s burning in a diffuser or wafting from the dishdasha of someone passing by, the scent is ever present and irresistible.

Frankincense

Frankincense

I’ve already bought some frankincense accessories to take home, but I buy another burner as we make one last walk through the souk. We pass men sitting together on the ground playing a board game, the fruit and vegetable market beats a slow pulse nearby, and life prepares to shut down for the afternoon.

We reluctantly make our way to the car knowing our time in Oman is coming to an end. We pass a road sign warning us of camel crossings as we begin the drive back to Muscat. Looking out the window as Oman’s exotic landscape passes me by, I am more intrigued now than when I arrived 10 days ago.

There is something enchanting about this country — a beauty revealed slowly and quietly over time. Take any part of Oman by itself — like the hot, empty desert — and it most certainly wouldn’t be so memorable. But the sum of its parts — that same desert with its warmth, sunset, rustic camp, dinner by candlelight, sweet dates, blissful bed, evening silence, morning fog, impossibly fine sand and genuine hospitality — creates an unforgettable sensory experience. This trip has been a series of sensory experiences. Travel at its best. The elusive feeling of discovery has returned.

Here’s a look back at my favorite memories of Oman. May my home forever smell of frankincense.

This is the final post in my series about Oman. The series begins here.

Miscellaneous Road Trip

Road Trip Oman: Foray Into the Desert

We wake up on the beach in Ras Al Hadd, having met a large yellow fin tuna and having enjoyed a peaceful night camping next to the ocean. The Omani sun burns bright white after closing out yesterday with a blaze of pink over the dark blue ocean. We make coffee and pack up the tent while noticing the paw prints and thievery of a small army of stray cats that came calling late in the night.

We drive from Sur toward Wadi Bani Khalid and Wahiba Sands. The coastal landscape changes to a bleak but mountainous panorama of blues and grays — practically a moonscape with minimal vegetation and only an occasional goat or camel. The road climbs up and finally transitions into canyonland with a lush border of date palms along each side.

We park the Pajero and venture by foot into Wadi Bani Khalid, one of Oman’s most popular wadis. We could be in Utah or Arizona — the colors and the canyon are reminiscent of Zion and Havasupai — were it not for the young boy hiking with us in his kuma, leading the way to Moqal Cave. We reach the entrance and peek inside, but the prospect of crawling around in the dark is overshadowed by our attraction to the numerous swimming holes dotting the canyon. We hike back to the water and stop for a swim in Bani Khalid’s crystal clear water.

We’re once again racing against the Omani afternoon, knowing we need to get to our next destination before sundown. We pack up and hike out of the canyon, and get on the road to Safari Desert Camp in Wahiba Sands. It’s 2:00 p.m. so we know the camp’s main office in Bidiyah is closed for the afternoon. Luckily, I’ve got a map — printed from the camp’s website and beautiful in its simplicity. Looks like a few left and right turns, and then 20 kilometers farther into the desert and… we’re there! Right?

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We make those left and right turns and come to the literal end of the road. I don’t think I’ve ever seen pavement end so abruptly. As we stop, gobsmacked at the adventure we’re about to embark on with 20 kilometers to go, I vaguely recall the brief but important words of the camp’s booking agent: “Requires a four wheel drive. Hope you have!”

Yes, we do have, but something tells me we might need a little more than just a four wheel drive. So, this is the road? For 20 kilometers? Shake it off. This is OMAN. I guess if we need help we can ask a Bedouin for a camel ride to the nearest outpost.

We push the gas and drive forward into the frontier of Wahiba Sands. The Pajero, as skittish as we are, reacts with squirrely tires and a slight tendency to steer left. But after a kilometer, we settle into the routine and begin to enjoy the wilderness of the desert — a new experience for us.

And then, like a video game, the terrain becomes more difficult. Small hills appear, with deep sand tracks indicating the struggle and success of people who have come before us. We start to understand the importance of speed — going as fast as we can bear, into ruts of shifting earth, tail end sliding left and right, with a hope and a prayer that we’ll make it to the next crest.

And then… the Mount Everest of dunes appears before us novice drivers of the desert. We stop — mouths agape — look at each other and laugh at the audacity of what lies ahead. Not only is this the hill of all hills, but the tracks lead left AND right, leaving us with no idea which way to go. It’s nearly 4:00 p.m. so turning around won’t do us much good. J revs the gas and we decide to give it a go, slightly aghast and slightly exhilarated by what we’re dealing with.

We make it halfway up before the tires on the left side sink in and force us to stop. We hop out and hike up the hill, deciding we’ll try again and follow the tracks to the right. J backs down the hill and guns it a second time while I take photos of our dilemma. No go — stuck again.

Divine intervention -- help from a couple of locals

Divine intervention — help from a couple of locals

J backs down the hill again, this time continuing halfway up the next hill so he can get a good run at it. He’s just about to hit the gas when a truck comes barreling over the crest of the hill and down toward where he’s parked. At this point I realize the potential of the situation we’re in. I’m on the hillside, he’s in the car alone a fair distance away from me, and all I can do is hope that the people who have stopped have good intentions because there is nowhere to run and nothing we can do.

The passenger of the vehicle gets out of the car and crouches down next to the front tire of our Pajero. Exhale. Divine intervention has arrived — these people are here to help us. Yay! They deflate our tires and then show us how it’s done, powering straight up the hill in a sandy blaze of glory. As luck would have it, one of these men is Ali Salem, owner of Safari Desert Camp. His reply to us confirming that, yes, we decided to foray into the desert without an escort from the camp office is simply, “Brave.”

Full petrol

Full petrol

J bravely tries the hill a third time and gets stuck again, and the men reiterate the need for full gas — pedal to the metal — to get to the top. A fourth time gets the Pajero nearly there, and with one last right-turn push from just below the crest, J finally conquers the mountain as I watch and take pictures. Good job, honey! No pressure!

The owner and his passenger tell us to follow them, and leave us in a trail of dust because we’re in Oman and that’s how they do it here.

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Arrival at Safari Desert Camp

We finally arrive at Safari Desert Camp as the sun gives everything a warm glow, shifting the sand from taupe to rust. We’re greeted with Omani coffee and dates, and decide a sunset camel ride is the perfect way to decompress after our foray into the desert.

The camp is perfectly sparse, with a variety of small huts sprinkled around a large dining hall. We’re staying in a yurt/hut with a huge open-air bathroom. We’re elated to learn that just seven people will be staying here tonight. We chose this camp hoping it wouldn’t be a manufactured desert experience over-run with tourists. It is nothing of the sort. Ali Salem has created an authentic experience — quiet and basic, just as the desert should be, with no electricity except for a generator used for cooking.

Dinner at dusk

Dinner at dusk

The dining hall glows with candlelight and dinner is a beautiful buffet of covered dishes — grilled meats, fresh baked breads and homemade desserts. We are far away from anything familiar, and completely enthralled by the magic of a starry night in the desert. After dinner, we climb into the netted bed — one of the most comfortable of our entire trip — and sink into the eery sensory deprivation of total silence and total darkness.

Morning reveals a chalky landscape with a drape of fog extending along the dunes. It is surprisingly cold until the sun gets high enough to warm the desert floor around the camp. We visit the camels nearby and drag the sleds up a dune for a few slides down the hill. We spend an hour getting to know Mohammed, the reception manager, who comes from India but much prefers the isolation of the desert in Oman.

We say goodbye and drive confidently back toward civilization, knowing there’s no dune we can’t conquer now. We arrive back at the edge of the pavement — a visceral boundary between one lifestyle and another. J stops the car and in his typical, lovable, selfless way, pulls out the ring Frisbee he’s been carrying in his backpack. Kids instantly appear from nowhere — beautiful, curious, shy, competitive — and pretty soon they’re all chasing after the latest greatest toy to appear in Bidiyah, as we get back in the Pajero and drive on to the Saiq Plateau.

***

This is the third post about touring Oman. You can read from the beginning starting here.

Next up… Road Trip Oman: Secluded Luxury at Jabal Akhdar

Road Trip

Road Trip Oman: Wild and Wadi Camping

Wadi Tiwi

Wadi Tiwi

After relaxing into Oman at a resort on the coast, it’s finally time for us to leave the comfort of Muscat and set out on our road trip. Oman’s geography makes road tripping an enticing way to see the country, with many of its notable features reachable only by four wheel drive. In addition, Oman offers up all of its terrain for “wild camping” – we are welcome to pitch our tent anywhere we like, so long as we’re not on anyone’s private property. I presume this liberal and welcoming attitude is a product of the Bedouin lifestyle that has existed in Oman for centuries. Land here isn’t fenced and defined – rather it’s open for wandering and camping, to whomever or whatever passes through or stops to rest.

This principle is illustrated immediately upon driving out of Muscat. Countless goats, and even a few camels and donkeys, roam freely over the landscape – even along the edge of the highway. We realize keeping our eyes on the road is especially important in Oman. Regardless of our caution, cars rocket past us on the highway. Smooth roads and insanely cheap petrol have made driving fast de rigueur.

We cruise along in the slow lane, heading south toward Sur. We’ve heard good things about Wadi Shab and Wadi Tiwi so we intend to find a place to camp for the night and hike into one of the wadis tomorrow. A wadi is a watercourse — sometimes dry, sometimes holding water, and never a good place to be when rain falls. Luck is with us today and December skies are clear.

We arrive at Tiwi in the afternoon. This sleepy seaside village is practically in a coma since everything in Oman shuts down between 1:00 and 4:00 p.m. Within 20 minutes we’ve seen the town and move toward the shore to survey our wild camping options. Unfortunately, the beach runs adjacent to the highway with enough noise and exposure to make us doubt we’ll enjoy camping here for our first night. We decide to drive into Wadi Tiwi and explore other options.

Tiwi greets us with a dirt road and a deep canyon and we’re immediately intrigued. We pass a series of small villages and the road narrows to a skinny lane. Date palms fill the canyon, full and green against the sheer, weathered walls. We shift into four wheel drive and climb the road to a small plateau above the villages – camping paradise found.

We unpack, pour some wine, put on our warm clothes and toast to our first night of wild camping in Oman. Not bad for not having much of a plan! But that’s the fun of this vacation — we can make it up as we go along.

We wake up in the morning to sunlight hitting the canyon walls, thankful for an uneventful night. But I take a walk with my morning coffee and begin to suspect we’ve camped in the village cemetery. Oblong circles of stones, about the length of a person and marked with one prominent stone standing upright, cover the ground next to our tent. Hmmmm.

We pack up our camp and drive further into the canyon until we’re too scared to push the Pajero any farther uphill. We set out on foot and discover another small village built into the hillside. The trail skirts the canyon wall offering spectacular views of the nearly-dry riverbed.

We descend to the river, noticing the well-constructed irrigation channel serving the village, and encounter several workers who are reinforcing the hiking trail. One of them asks where we’re from. I reply that we’re from the U.S. and then ask where he’s from.

“Bangladesh!”
“Dhaka?”
“Yes!”
He is thrilled that I know where he’s from.

The man directing the trail work asks if we’d like some coffee. A group of Omani men lounges nearby, filling their cups and talking in Arabic. We feel so foreign – especially me, as a woman, dressed in western hiking gear without anything covering my head, amidst men who are clearly my elders. We hesitate to answer, realizing in the moment that it’s so much easier to say no than it is to say yes. But we say yes, not wanting to refuse this gesture of goodwill. We kick off our shoes, take a seat and are offered Omani coffee, a dish filled with dates (and swarming with flies) and, from what little we can understand, talk of Pakistan.

After finishing our coffee and thanking our hosts, we hike back to the Pajero, stopping along the way for a quick swim in the clear water of the riverbed. It’s midday and we need to move on to Sur and find our next campsite.

The Gulf of Oman glows sapphire blue next to the chalky landscape of the coast. We arrive in Sur at 2:00 p.m., once again greeted by the silence of an Omani afternoon. We briefly explore the area, but our need to find camping before dusk pushes us on to Ras Al Jinz. We hope to see nesting turtles here, but an employee of the reserve tells us the season is just about over and there is no camping allowed.

We drive farther toward the coast and arrive at Ras Al Hadd. The wild camping options are looking favorable with two beaches to choose from – somewhat busy and deserted. We choose the latter, just the two of us setting up camp as a dhow cruises by and the sun drops toward the western mountains.

The view from our first beach campsite

The view from our first beach campsite

With the tent up and a drink almost in my hand, I look to my right. I see a white SUV driving onto the beach, coming full speed directly at us. In the fifteen seconds it takes to reach us, I think about all the possibilities of this situation. We can only hope, as we would in any country, that whoever is coming at us with such urgency has a good reason, as well as good intentions.

The male driver turns the car to his right, bringing us face to face with him, leaning out the driver’s side window.

“Hello. I am a guide.”
Exhale.
“I just came to tell you this beach is closed. You cannot camp here.”
J and I exchange glances.
“If you pack up your camping gear I will show you where you can camp. You can follow me.”
Inhale. More exchanged glances and thoughts, reading each other’s mind. Follow him? Is that a good idea? Should we trust what he’s telling us? Shit! This is such a perfect campsite!
“Okay. Thank you. We’ll pack up and follow you,” I reply.

We say this knowing there’s only one other potential beach camping option and that we can stop following him if we want to. We cram the Pajero with our gear and try to leave the beach and get stuck in the sand in the process.

“Please. Will you allow me to help you?” he asks.
We exchange glances again.
“Sure, thank you.”

He gets in the Pajero, confidently turns the wheel, pushes the gas with the finesse of a race car driver and takes the Pajero right out of the deep sand. Omanis make it look so easy.

We drive five minutes down the road and he brings us to the busier beach where locals are enjoying a beautiful Thursday afternoon.

“You can camp here. It’s a good place. Just don’t go closer to the water. There may be turtles nesting.”

Exhale. Breathe. Please pardon us for expecting the worst, and thank you very much for helping us find a good place to sleep tonight.

We set up camp for the second time and talk about these chance encounters that happen every time we travel, near and far from home. We’re grateful this man came to help us with good intentions, and we’re happy we enjoyed the genuine hospitality of the men we encountered in Wadi Tiwi.

We start to relax and think about what to make for dinner when a pick-up truck comes driving across the sand, straight at our campsite. Again?!

The driver stops and shouts through the passenger window.

“Hello! Where are you from? I want to show you something. Come over to my vehicle!”
“You want us to get in your vehicle?” We are, again, a little bit freaked out.
“No, just come look!”

He jumps out of the truck and motions us to look inside the bed. We walk over to the truck and cautiously peek into the bed, having no idea what to expect.

Here lies a massive yellow-fin tuna.

“I just caught it! I’m going to sell it at the market!”

Exhale.

***

This is the second post about touring Oman. You can read the first post here.

Next up… Road Trip Oman: Foray Into the Desert

Miscellaneous Road Trip

Road Trip Oman: Arrival in Muscat

Oman

My interest in traveling to Oman started with a bicycling race and some mountains — common features of a lot of my travels. It was 2010, winter in Lake Tahoe, and J and I were watching the first Tour of Oman on television. The peloton snaked along the route with its usual gracefulness, but the backdrop of the race featured unusually stark mountains, a pristine coastline and a series of towns and villages painted in infinite shades of white. I looked up Oman in Geographica’s World Reference (an excellent source which still holds an important place on our antiquated bookshelf), noted Oman’s location on the Arabian Peninsula, and set Oman to simmer in the back of my mind.

Fast-forward five years and here we are in Muscat. Since moving abroad, Oman’s proximity has enabled us to get here sooner than we expected – it’s just eight hours from Singapore, through Colombo or Dubai. But beyond its proximity, everything we’ve read and heard over the years has consistently portrayed the country as a welcoming, peaceful and fascinating place to visit, with a concerted interest in preserving both its cultural heritage and its environment.

First impressions confirm all of the above to be true. Before setting out on our road trip, we spend the first two nights in deep relaxation at a resort along the coast outside of Muscat. The view over afternoon coffees at the Al Bustan Palace (the next bay over) foreshadows what we’ll be seeing throughout our trip — barren but dramatically formed mountains that quash our limited knowledge of geology. I soon find myself researching the Semail Ophiolite (more on that later) and struggling to comprehend 800 million years of tectonic and volcanic events.

Kumas

At dusk, we venture into Old Muscat for a few hours to explore the souk with its narrow alleys selling gold jewelry, frankincense and kumas. I admire the men’s dishdashas – simple white robes worn every day, often smelling of frankincense and always projecting an indelible air of elegance. What marvelous garments for hot weather.

Omani manscaping

J stops for a shave at one of the many barbers around the souk and we’re soon introduced to the meticulous rituals of Omani manscaping. This is Next Level Grooming, as proven by the guy next to J who is having his mustache threaded. Within 10 minutes, J’s beard transforms from a western mess to a sculpted garden reminiscent of the Sultan of Oman himself (go ahead, you know you want to Google image him — he’s beautiful and perfectly groomed at age 74). The Omanis have turned a simple shave into an art form.

The next morning we visit the fish market, a bustle of activity and a potent glimpse at daily life in Oman. We follow this with a walk through the Sultan Qaboos Grand Mosque and I am as awed by its beauty as I am by St. Peter’s Basilica in Vatican City. The Grand Mosque is home to the world’s second largest handmade carpet, as well as a 14-meter, 8.5-ton chandelier in the prayer hall made of 600,000 Swarovski crystals. I can say with honesty that the chandelier is one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen in my life.

Our trip to Oman has started splendidly and in the past two days we’ve settled in and gotten a sense of what to expect in the coming week. People have been friendly, but what’s absent is the profuse, sometimes insincere, pandering to tourists that’s often found (and expected by some) in overly-traveled destinations. And I don’t miss it. People here acknowledge our presence and welcome us, but they are clearly not dependent on us being here. Life goes on in Oman, with or without us tourists, and it’s refreshing to find it this way.

On our third afternoon in Muscat, we take a taxi to pick up our rental car. Thankfully, our taxi driver helps us sort out some considerable confusion about where it’s located and we finally arrive at a house in a quaint residential neighborhood. An Omani man is waiting with the car and a Filipino woman is waiting with our rented camping gear – tent, sleeping bags, stove, chairs, cooler and all. Within an hour we’re on the highway back to the hotel, this time in the driver’s seat, excited to begin our road trip the next morning in our awesome, nearly-new Mitsubishi Pajero. Good thing it’s a four-wheel drive.

***

Next up… Road Trip Oman: Wild and Wadi Camping

P.S. for cycling fans… the winner of the 2010 Tour of Oman was the charismatic Fabian Cancellara.

Miscellaneous Road Trip

Blessed by Mani Rimdu in the Himalayas

This entry is Part 6 in a series about my trip to Nepal in 2005.

Waiting for Mani Rimdu to begin

Waiting for Mani Rimdu to begin

The sudden flutter of activity at the front door of Tengboche Monastery brought everyone to their feet. Afternoon clouds settled at the crest of the hill, erasing parts of the deep blue sky with dramatic effect. The horns, previously droning from a window of the monastery, transitioned into a full-fledged musical procession moving down the front steps signaling the beginning of the day’s Mani Rimdu festivities.

Mani Rimdu celebrates the establishment of Buddhism in Tibet by Guru Rinpoche. The festival begins on the first day of the tenth month of the Tibetan lunar calendar (around October or November) and brings together the Tibetan, Sherpa and monastic communities of the region. For the first nine days of Mani Rimdu monks conduct private, sacred ceremonies called Drupchen, which are followed on the tenth day by the Wang, a blessing ceremony for the general public by the abbot of the monastery. This is followed by masked dances and celebration over three days with a fire puja marking the end of the festival.

To our delight, we arrived on the day of the Wang. The monks of Tengboche played horns, cymbals and drums as they exited the gate onto the trail in front of the monastery. Their full ceremonial dress included yellow hats symbolic of the Gelug school of Vajrayana Buddhism. Wrapped in a gold robe, one of the monks walked past with a two-foot conch shell held to his lips — what looked to be an antique musical instrument from far, far away.

At the gompa next to the monastery, the procession paused in an exquisite display of color and ceremony punctuated by a fantastic arc of yellow atop each monk’s head. Their music beat on in a clash of cymbals and horns as a masked man stepped into the focus of the growing crowd of Sherpas and trekkers. Snowy Kangtega filled the sky behind him.

Mi-Tsering of Mani Rimdu

Mi-Tsering of Mani Rimdu

Mi-Tsering is a featured persona of Mani Rimdu. He’s also known as Long Life Man. Narrative from Chiwong Monastery in Kathmandu says Mi-Tsering “is a kind, bumbling, gentle old man. He means well and does his best, but inevitably gets everything wrong. He is, however, convinced that he’s an expert and tries to instruct others in some of the temple rituals, such as offering khataks (silk scarves), or doing prostrations. His is a light-hearted comic act, yet it brings a poignant message of encouragement to ordinary people — that sincerity and good intentions count for as much as expertise. It is Mi-Tsering who heads the procession of monks welcoming Trulshig Rinpoche’s arrival at Chiwong, and who heralds him into the courtyard to preside over the dances. He is an acknowledgement of every man’s good intentions, however humble.”

Here in the Himalayas, Mi-Tsering preceded the appearance of Tengboche Rinpoche, Abbot of Tengboche Monastery. I am still astounded at my sheer luck getting a decent photograph of this revered man.

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Tengboche Rinpoche, Abbot of the Tengboche Monastery

Narrative of the Tengboche Monastery notes, “In 1935, on the same day the Dalai Lama was born, a Sherpa family from Namche Bazaar had a son. When this boy was still very small he insisted he had a home and possessions in Tengboche. His family went to visit Ngawang Tenzin Norbu in Rongbuk and this high lama, who had always been closely connected with Tengboche, recognized him as the Tulku or reincarnation of Lama Gulu (founder of Tengboche Monastery, who died in 1934). He was given the name Ngawang Tenzin Zangbu. When the family returned to Namche the monks from Tengboche came with possessions from Lama Gulu mixed in with other monks’ possessions. The boy picked out everything that had belonged to the previous lama without hesitation. Everyone agreed he was the true incarnation and he was brought to Tengboche Monastery. He then undertook many years of hard study and training. He spent many years in Tibet studying with the great masters there. In 1956 he returned to Tengboche as the Abbot of the monastery and is known as Tengboche Rinpoche.”

The Abbot and monks moved to the side of the monastery where they were seated with Sherpas of the community. Mi-Tsering sat in a chair at a corner of the gathering, silk scarf in his hands, fielding curious looks from the Sherpas around him. Mani Rilwu and Tshereel were distributed with tea as Tengboche Rinpoche began giving the empowerment for long life, happiness and prosperity to everyone attending.

Trulshig Rinpoche, Abbot of Chiwong Monastery, says, “Seeing Mani Rimdu is like receiving a blessing.” Indeed, we felt blessed having seen this unique cultural event deep in the Himalayas. We returned to camp and rested up for the next day’s journey farther into the Khumbu.

Next: Regarding Everest — the final post in this series about Nepal.

This entry is Part 6 in a series about my trip to Nepal in 2005. Previous entries can be found here: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5

Culture
View over the Khumbu Valley

The Difficult Decisions of Adventure Travel

The Khumbu Valley, Nepal

The Khumbu Valley, Nepal

With a heavy heart, I’ve been following the recent catastrophe on the Annapurna Circuit in Nepal. For anyone unfamiliar, 39 people died when cyclone Hudhud moved north from India into Nepal bringing unprecedented levels of snowfall to the Annapurna region. Trekkers and guides were caught in whiteout conditions — some of them while crossing Thorung La Pass at over 17,000 feet. Within 24 hours, avalanches and hypothermia claimed the lives of dozens of people.

This a harrowing situation, and a painful reminder of the hazards of adventure travel. There is no doubt that each and every person affected by the cyclone had set out on the trip of a lifetime during what was expected to be the absolute best month of the year to experience the Himalayas. Most of them (if not all of them) had probably prepared well in advance of departing on their trek — getting in shape, assembling their gear and preparing for a challenging route through alpine terrain. Most of them probably never expected to be confronted with the storm of a century.

When I say most, I mean most trekkers and most guides. I’m dismayed to see today’s news articles casting blame and pointing fingers at the Nepali guides, implying it was they who were primarily at fault in causing this disaster. To be fair, I wasn’t trekking the Annapurna Circuit when this disaster happened so I will never know exactly what transpired, but I’ve completed two long treks through Nepal’s Khumbu Valley to over 18,200 feet (5,500 meters). On both trips, nothing was more important to my guides and Sherpas than making sure my health was intact, conditions were good and the chances of making it to our next campsite were optimal.

The thrill of victory, at the base of Mount Everest

The thrill of victory, at the base of Mount Everest

But beyond the level of concern a guide has for a traveler’s safety and welfare is something even more important to all of us adventure travelers: our own responsibility for our own safety and welfare. This is a crucial component of adventure travel that cannot be underestimated. Unfortunately, it’s a component that’s easily compromised when the goal is great and the stakes are high. What if I don’t make it? I came half-way around the world to do this trek. I spent thousands of dollars to be here. This is a trip of a lifetime. I have to get there. I have to keep going.

I was confronted with this type of situation just three weeks ago. I rallied a group of eight friends to travel to Borneo and hike to the top of Mount Kinabalu. I planned the whole trip, collected the funds, arranged the guides and made sure all the details were taken care of. On a cloudy Saturday morning we were all transported from Kota Kinabalu to the base of the mountain to start the hike. We were met with decidedly un-tropical conditions — cold wind and dark skies that felt more like hiking in the Rocky Mountains. We pulled out our cold weather gear and started the climb. Almost immediately I didn’t feel well — I had an upset stomach and I felt like a car running on empty. It was a struggle for me just to get to the mid-way point where we would sleep for a few hours and then rise at 2:00 a.m. to hike to the summit for sunrise. I was exhausted and after dinner my heart was racing, likely a side effect of high altitude even though I grew up and have lived most of my life between 6,000 and 8,000 feet above sea level.

The agony of defeat, on the trail to Kinabalu

The agony of defeat, on the trail to Kinabalu

The whole situation was unfamiliar to me. I’ve never had altitude sickness. I’m usually the one racing up the trail and pushing to the summit. As I laid in bed that night at the mid-way point I evaluated the situation. I could get up at 2:00 a.m. and push on with the group (who were all feeling fine), but what if something terrible happened? What if I had a heart attack at 12,000 feet, in the dark of night, on the side of a mountain, with no chance of a swift rescue? It didn’t seem rational to go any further, and that’s when all the irrational thoughts came flooding in. How can I come all this way and not go to the summit? I’m the person who planned this damn trip! If I don’t go I’m a quitter. I’ll hate myself. What if I’m the only person who doesn’t get to the summit? What will everyone else think?

What will everyone else think? These are very powerful words. Words that cause people to make very bad decisions. But in this case I decided that it wasn’t everyone else who mattered. Only I mattered in the decision I needed to make, and I decided I wasn’t comfortable going any further up the mountain. I took responsibility for my own health and safety. Even though it was a difficult decision (let’s face it… it sucked), I did find comfort in having the strength to make it and knowing I had done the best thing for ME.

It was a decision I became more comfortable with when we woke up at 2:00 a.m. and I let my group know I wouldn’t be going any further. They dressed for the hike and were only a few steps from the door when torrential rain engulfed our hut. The guides stopped my group and they were forced to wait for the rain to pass. A few groups had already departed before the rain started so we hoped they were able to take shelter somewhere on the mountain. The rain relented around 6:00 a.m. so my group asked the guides if they could make a late attempt to reach the summit. The guides agreed and my group got within a kilometer of the summit but turned back when the sky unleashed once again and conditions became treacherous. By 8:00 a.m., as I was waiting at the hut for my group to return, the view out the window was staggering. The side of the mountain had turned into a raging river with Class III rapids spilling off the rock face. Thankfully and unbelievably, by 9:00 a.m. everyone had returned safely. I’m eternally grateful for this outcome in the midst of a life-threatening situation.

In reflection on the Annapurna events and my own trip up Kinabalu, I ask myself … can a guide force you to summit or to keep climbing in a situation like this? In my opinion, no — unless perhaps a guide is trying to get you to the summit because the potential for safety is better on the other side, which may have been what happened to some on the Annapurna Circuit. But generally speaking, no guide can force you to put one foot in front of the other. That’s entirely your own decision. On my trek up Kinabalu, my guide was completely supportive of my decision to stay behind and never questioned my judgement. On similar treks in Nepal and Peru, my guides did everything in their power (including carrying an exhausted trekker on the back of a porter) to make sure the people in their care were attended to, feeling okay, and transported to a lower altitude when needed.

It’s important to remember that in adventure travel, conditions can change rapidly — that’s part of the reason we call it adventure travel in the first place. It’s an adventure and there is risk involved, sometimes BIG risk. But I have no doubt that in the conditions that befell the people on the Annapurna Circuit, everyone was doing the very best they could in the extreme situation at hand and being in that situation was never the fault of one individual or one group of people.

As adventure travelers, we need to remember that we have a choice about moving ahead with the journeys we plan. When conditions become challenging or when our intuition tells us that the danger of continuing outweighs the disappointment of staying behind, we need to be okay with stopping or changing course. We need to understand before we even set out that not every adventure will end with success. We need to take responsibility for our own health and safety, make our own choices and accept that sometimes it’s in our own best interest to let go of the adventure.

Experience Miscellaneous Outdoors Travel

A Person of the Forest at Semenggoh

While in Borneo, we stopped at Semenggoh Wildlife Centre outside of Kuching. Semenggoh has been successfully rehabilitating orphaned and injured wild animals since 1975. These animals are taught how to survive in their native habitat and then re-introduced into the wild.

Semenggoh’s orang-utan rehabilitation program has been particularly successful, with many having been released into the surrounding forest reserve — which has reached its sustainable capacity for these amazing, intelligent creatures. Orang-utan rehabilitation has since been transferred to the Matang Wildlife Centre in another national park in Borneo.

Yet Semenggoh remains a special place. Rehabilitated “semi-wild” orang-utans often return to this center during its morning and afternoon feeding times. It’s a safe place to find an easy meal. In Malay, orang means person and utan means forest, and there’s always an eager audience waiting and hoping for these “people of the forest” to make an impromptu appearance at Semenggoh.

We were lucky on this Friday morning, as a male orang-utan swung through the canopy and stopped for some sugar cane and durian. At first just a mass of reddish hair, I finally discerned his figure as he moved around a tree trunk — upside down, downside up, limbs stretching in all directions. Finally… a face. Just for a moment. Then a leap, a grab, a durian, and a perch under leaves on a tree limb. Breakfast, privacy, a glance at us on the ground, another bite. And then off again into the treetops.

Experience Nature Outdoors Travel