Theatre of Dreams

At 5.45 am, I crawl out of bed bleary eyed with a sense of doubt. Outside the panoramic window of the tin shack, the haunting quiet of a bitter night still hangs in the air, stars piercing the blackness. I dress hastily.
Down in the rickety lobby, last night’s fire is smouldering and steaming shirts hang above the plastic breakfast tables. There is an apprehensive buzz among the crush. Excited voices call out in Korean, or Japanese and heavy boots thunder on shabby wooden floors. I pick my way out and head uphill in the direction of the chatter as my torch illuminates the compact ice on roughly hewn steps. The sharp night air fills my lungs as I climb up, following the snaking trail of pilgrims on their way to welcome the sun. Halfway I dutifully stop to present 50 rupees to the man in the box. The contribution goes to local causes and preservation of Poon Hill. When I reach the top (3210m) where the pilgrimage has gathered, it is still dark. I coax my hunger into remission with masala tea (Nepali style with 3 teaspoons of sugar!) from the small tea hut. It is 6.30am now, and all around is a black canvas, with only looming shadows of the great stone giants hidden by the night.
Finally, a ray of orange light streaks lazily across the sky, and the theatre of the Himalayas is alive with a warm glow. Mountains - first orange, then pink, appear towering above us in all directions. Gasps of wonder and delight come from the gathered crowd on the hillside. Accompanying guides shoot each other knowing glances, acknowledging their satisfied clients. Finally, as the protagonist rises above the horizon, the peaks are steeped in fresh, bright morning light, and the sun glistens on the snowy caps. Small clouds gather near the summits, and we are told that the wind is whipping the snow into storms above us. The sheer beauty stuns me.
I make my move before the crowds, who are still tinkering with their cameras. I shuffle and slide back towards the tin lodge whilst colourful prayer flags criss-cross the path, shivering in the morning breeze. After the odd straggler, the walk back is a silent, white and beautiful affair, reminiscent of a winter’s morning at home in Britain, except without the theatrical beauty of the Himalayan peaks.
On arrival back at the lodge, the fire is stoked and eventually the excited chatter returns. Warm tea is flowing again as I sink comfortably into my plastic chair to reflect on my dreamlike adventure.