courtnay's journal

I am going to die here in the mountains.

At 5,200 meters, where every breath is a desperate gasp, I am certain this is my fate. I try to call out to Bhakdo, my Tibetan trekking guide, but he has gone ahead to set up camp before it gets dark. As a native to these extreme altitudes, he practically frolics through the treacherous mountain passes. I, on the other hand, must resemble a waddling duck as I try to navigate the deep snow. Bhakdo disappears over the horizon and I feel a sense of panic. I am alone.

I close my eyes and I am a six-year-old child in Death Valley with my father. We stand there for a moment in the solitude of the desert and after a while he asks me, “What do you hear?”

I wait and listen. Is this a trick question? Finally I say, “I don't hear anything.”

He smiles at me, “Exactly.”

Here in the Tibetan Himalayas I hear silence again for the second time in my life. It is crisp and pure, bringing a hyper-awareness to all of the senses. My face feels the biting cold and the burning sun together as a singular sensation. The air smells of a newly born freshness, as if my nostrils are the first to ever inhale it. All I can see in any direction is more snow and more mountains. The vastness is overwhelming.

The footprints that stretch out in front of me remind me that I must keep moving, so I trudge on. Each step is a great achievement. Eventually I reach the spot where I last saw Bhakdo vanish. The mountains give way and reveal a green valley full of grazing yaks. In the middle of it all is a small cluster of houses and when I see them my mind bursts into a jubilant celebration. I’ve made it! I’m not going to die after all!

I continue on through the yaks. They grunt softly to one another, as if they are scoffing at this clumsy human passing through their territory. Yaks are the lifeblood of Tibet. They carry loads and plow fields; their fur is made into coats and their meat fills momos (traditional dumplings). Yak butter keeps the lamps burning in temples and their droppings are used as combustion in areas where there is no firewood.

As I approach the houses, I see our tents set up in the courtyard. Bhakdo welcomes me with a thermos of hot butter tea—the perfect drink to commemorate a daylong trek through the Himalayas. We sip our tea and Bhakdo teases me for being so slow to arrive. I happily laugh at myself and my foreigner’s pace, simply content with my picturesque surroundings. I will never forget the infinite solitude of those peaks.