The Man in the Mountains

Sunrise, and the mountains are changing through a wardrobe of colour; from a soft blue through baby pink to bright orange, before settling into shining silver.

I'm on the border of Sikkim, Bengal and Nepal in the middle of the Singalila trek. The Kachendzonga mountain range dominates the horizon. Pemba, my guide, tells me that the mountains are called the 'Sleeping Buddha', and points out the hollow of his eye; his protruding nose, chest and feet.

The valleys are empty of the seething mist that has shrouded the scene over the few past days, and I can see the earthy foothills below. The Buddha had appeared so separate previously, floating off in an otherworldly place, but this morning he is right here with me- almost reachable and inexplicably lonely. I imagine him sitting up and shaking off the rocks and debris that keep him bound.

Lingering on the ridge, I listen to the sound of a thousand icicles shattering below as the new sunlight melts the frost off an entire valley. The clear morning holds an empty expanse of sky above wisps of cloud, but even as I stand here the cloud is being pulled up into the sky overhead. It happens impossibly quickly. White plumes streak past me in seconds and I watch them dance above violently. They coil around with ever-increasing speed until they merge into a dark grey mass. Then a heavy fog descends, shielding the Buddha from view.

Pemba and I walk under the fog, which turns the twisted forest landscape into an eerie, surreal scene. As the day wears on, a patch of sky above appears a little bluer than the rest, but I dismiss it as wishful thinking. I stare at the sky intently, unsure whether I'm imagining things, when a rift appears and the fog is sucked inside in an instant. The new-formed patch of blue sky starts to swallow everything. Clouds are catapulted into it, unable to escape. Minutes later, the sky is clear and the Sleeping Buddha returns. I wave good-bye to him as Pemba and I start the long climb down the mountain.