Poon Hill Trek, Nepal (Part 2 of 3)
On the trail again… and again… and…
Poon Hill Trek Day 3: From Ulleri to Ghorapani (“Horse Water”)
N. said that the birds were crazy in the morning, that it was the loudest symphony of birds that he had ever heard in his life, so of course, unlike me who actually called him out in the middle of the night to point out, “Oh, wake up and look at the beautiful stars!”, he just heard the musical birds all by himself.
Both of us were surprised that we didn’t seem to be feeling the effects of the hike yesterday. We woke up in this morning, and neither of us felt sore. All that training and exercising before coming to Nepal seemed to be paying off.
Early in the morning, we got another glimpse of both Annapurna South and Himchuli.
The sound of bells distracted me from the mountains. Soon enough I saw donkeys arriving with sacks of concrete or sand or some other construction material. Had they come up those 3,000 steps? When had they started? This morning? It was barely eight o’clock! The donkey shepherd — donkpherd? — unloaded each donkey and pat them away, at which point they did the most peculiar thing: as soon as the heavy bags were taken off their backs, each animal dropped to its knees, turned on its back, and writhed in the dust. Likely after having such loads for the hard trek, they really needed a good stretch and scratch.
We were the last team to leave the tea house this morning. Everybody else had already risen and finished breakfast and gone on their way. We started the trek around 8:30 am, headed to Ghorepani, which A. explained, comprised of the words “horse” and “water” — “The Watering Hole for Horses.”
By now it was clear that everyone we’d run across was headed to Poon Hill, so sometimes we passed them; at other times we were passed. Today’s trail involved mostly forest areas, with trees covered with moss, grounds abundant with ferns. Here and there we crossed streams and running water from waterfalls, and even when these were unseen, we could hear the sounds.
In this section of the trail, it was hard to ignore the shiny silver rocks that looked almost like they had been spray painted — A. said they were mica, and not knowing anything about rock composition, I took his word for it.
In a couple of stretches, he pointed to marijuana plants on the side of the road. He said marijuana was not legal in the Nepal but no one was going to come up those Ulleri steps to give anybody a ticket or drag them to prison.
Lots of animals on the trail today — besides the usual chickens, there were lambs and oxen and buffalo. The funniest was a black dog that looked as if he were doing some solo trekking, cantering uphill and putting us to shame.
At the Ghorepani checkpoint, we got some rest and pictures while A. reported our presence and got an official stamp on my journal (Yay!).
Meanwhile, N. was busy using body language to spread some of his brand of optimism. He charmed those two lady porters and took a couple of selfies with them. I greeted the ladies and pointed to their shoes — one had sneakers while another had sandal slides. I made the motions to ask, “Don’t you have sneakers?” She just smiled and shook her head. A. helped translate and sketch out her story: she had worked as a support staff before. But she had taken a break to have a baby and then another forced break because of COVID. With trekking tourism open again in Nepal, she was back on the trails: she made more money doing this than other jobs available to her.
We arrived in Ghorepani around 3 pm. It was early enough that by the time we took showers (cold water free, hot water at NPR 200 a pop), did a bit of hand laundry and settled down in the common area around the stove where it was possible to grab a warm drink and relax.
The tea house had put together this scaffolding around the stove for the purposes of drying laundry. Other trekkers had done their own laundry, and now everyone hung their clothes to dry. As our shirts dried I could literally see the steam coming off them, which made me think that the shirts were not drying as much as baking. If I had not pulled out the merino wool shirt when I did, I think it would have melted on the line.
It was nice to rest by a cozy warm stove, drink milk coffees, do a bit of reading on our kindles — N. was reading “Caste” by Isabel Wilkerson and I was reading “The Dawn of Everything” by Graeber and Wengrow. It felt even cozier when it started to rain.
We turned in after dinner and tried to get some rest — our trek to Poon Hill proper would begin at 4:45 am.
***
Our guide A. learned that the large Korean fellowship was headed to the Annapurna Base Camp. The group was taking not only support staff to carry their duffels but also cooks, cooking gear and ingredients for all their meals, and hence the sesame seed oil, lettuce and, at one point, raw chickens — ssam or dak galbi would indeed taste awesome after a day of trekking.
In fact, many of the tea houses on this trek had signs in Korean — along with English and Chinese — touting rooms and restaurants. Considering that Kathmandu is only a 6-hour flight from Seoul, Nepal’s popularity among Korean trekkers made sense.
Coming to think of it, by the first checkpoint in Berethani, I remember a plaque in English and Korean to mark the dedication by a Korean governmental organization in constructing something in the area. I think I took a picture of the sign. Will follow up later.
***
I think N. and I are pretty much done trying to eat noodles or pasta or anything western — we ordered a pizza for lunch today, and it was not an easy eat. Dinner was great because we ordered dal bhat and you get free refills of its components and it tasted much better than whatever imitation of western food they served.
N. has been super impressed by all the the tea houses — attached bathrooms anyone? Rooms are made up of platforms with mattresses and a little night table. These were a far cry from the utilitarian tea houses we visited when we were hiking near Khangchendzonga in the Darjeeling area nearly 20 years ago.
We broke out our sleeping bags tonight, and they’re even more comfortable than we thought.
***
Poon Hill Trek Day 4: Poon Hill & Ghorapani to Tadapani (“Far Away Water”)
Perhaps the pressure to make sure to get a good night’s sleep for the early trek was just too much: both N. and I didn’t get much rest.
The sleeping bags turned out to be too hot. The benadryl we took to make sure to fall asleep had no effect. The worst for me was the fact that I think I slept but dreamed about struggling to sleep, so I was tired anyway. Then around 4 am — I checked the clock — the neighborhood cocks started to crow.
Nothing to do but get up and get dressed.
We slapped lamps on our foreheads and trekking polls on our wrists. We left in the pitch black dark and followed the path that A. led to the viewpoint. To our horror, we noticed that the trail was made up of… stone steps! After we voiced our suspicions to him, he confirmed and tried to give us a spin: hey, at least it was dark and you couldn’t really see how high the trail was. Onwards and upwards.
We arrived at the Poon Hill viewpoint exactly at the right time, when it was bright enough to notice the features around us but before the breaking of dawn.
The color in the skies changed by the minute: it was about 5:45 am when the first of the sun’s rays broke from behind the mountains in the east, turning the sky from blue to gray to yellow to orange.
That’s when the Dhaulagiri mountain range, with its wisps of clouds like gauzy white scarves made everyone on that viewpoint ohh and ahh. (Unfortunately the Annapurnas to the right were enveloped by a thick and chunky scarf, so they were impossible to admire). A. mentioned Dhaulagiri was the seventh highest mountain in the world (8,167 meters/26,795 feet).
N. was high on these views and trying to take as many photos as possible. When the sun came up high enough for its first rays to hit the side of Dhaulagiri and brighten the snow-covered face, it was hard not to take a breath and sigh in awe.
We saw all our trekking companions around the viewpoint — the large group of Koreans were there without their cooks; the solo Spaniard from Barcelona who had hurt his knee had made it; a smaller Korean trio we had seen on our first night in Ulleri were also puttering about, one of whom confessed he had also hurt his knee (is there a Curse of the Knee on this trek?).
Soon enough the skies brightened and the clouds thickened, so it was time to head back down to Ghorepani, to breakfast, to packing, to another trekking day.
Today’s destination was Tadapani (“Far Away” + “Water”). The hike today included steps going up and steps going down. Wash, rinse and repeat.
During today’s lunch, one from the Korean group broke off and chatted up with N. He had been exchanging tidbits with N. for the last few days, and today he wanted to know what we did that made us retire so young. Did I mention that Koreans are less guarded about asking what some people would consider personal questions?
I was bombarded by another in the group who asked me how we traveled without cooks and what we ate. When I simply pointed at the menu, he bombarded me with information: he had had no idea; he was a YouTuber and wanted to post this information on his channel; would I mind if he took a picture of every page on the menu? He went on and on about it, the result of which was that our lunch order was delayed; I was really hungry, so I could feel myself starting to feel hangry. “Oh, by the way, we eat tasty Korean food throughout our trek and it’s even better than what we can eat in Korea!” Good for you, you insensitive lout; I’m starving. He finally left to his ready lunch while I was left hungrily holding the menu.
That is one aspect of their type of traveling that I strongly reject. Some travel, but they create for themselves an impervious cocoon, seeing the sights but not talking to the local people, not eating the local food, not learning local stories. Then why travel?!? They could just download pictures of mountains online.
We ordered dal bhat for lunch again — every tea house, every Nepalese home makes its own version, so it’s different every time.
Unfortunately this time, 10 minutes after lunch, N. began to receive mayday messages from his stomach. I quickly made him swallow a couple of pink pills and we stopped at the next tea house to use the bathroom (and our guide paid for the privilege by buying something from their little store.) Thankfully he did not have to emulate the buffaloes or donkeys. Disaster averted.
Speaking of donkeys, we saw them again today, coming up the trail we were descending. These were also carrying construction material, but large slabs of slate instead of sacks of cement. These were about 4 by 3 feet, four to five slabs on each side; I didn’t dare guess the weight of each panel.
A few more steps below A. pointed us to where these were coming from. By the side of the river, workers were painstakingly carving pieces by a mountain section that was pure slate. These were being loaded onto the backs of donkeys and being transferred to customers along the hillsides who used them, A. informed us, as roofing material. (It also appeared that the workers lived next to the river — we could see little tents close by.)
We reached Tadapani after 3 pm. We felt a bit sore, but were grateful that N.’s stomach seemed to quietly hold its own. We sat around the stove, which was not really warm but at least had the benefit of people to talk to. A. was there along with the guide and support staff of the Spaniard (who was nowhere to be seen). And they told us stories about Nepal. Development. Economics. Politics. Education. Climate change.
The Spaniard’s guide mentioned consequences of climate change he’d seen in his country. This year Kathmandu, which was supposed to have a period of pre-monsoon, had instead a drought of nine months, leading to a dry and dusty capital. In the Mustang desert area, where houses were built with clay roofs, constant rain had led to collapsed homes. More recently in the Everest Base Camp area near Namche Bazaar, a whole lake had collapsed, flooding homes and washing away houses below.
This guide’s most entertaining story involved a German executive from Adidas who had decided he wanted to hike the EBC in one week between business meetings in India and China. He showed up in Nepal, hired this guide and porters, and against pretty much everyone’s advice, insisted on hiking to Gorakshep (elevation 5,164 meters/16,942 feet) quickly, which he did in four days. Unsurprisingly he began to feel the effects of altitude mountain sickness. The guide said an oximeter reading showed the guy’s oxygen level at 42 percent (is that even possible?).
The only remedy for AMS is lowering one’s elevation, so the guide gave his client some options: walking down, getting on a horse, or calling a helicopter? Of course the dunce chose to walk down. When he couldn’t, the guide said he gave the guy’s pack and his own to the other porters — and he carried the man on his back, a man he estimates was about 70 kgs. At the next stop, with the guy sick and the staff exhausted, they convinced him to call a helicopter rescue but by then the cloud cover had made it impossible for a helicopter to land. So they continued down the trail on foot. Everything that could possibly have gone wrong had gone wrong.
Long story short: the man did survive and now the guide had a ridiculously great story to tell. Stories about stupid tourists are always funny as long as we were ourselves were not the stupid ones.
Our supporter B. has also given us his verdict on stupid tourists. Nepal recently put in place a requirement that foreigners must hire a guide when trekking. Yes, it is a way to create jobs, but the side benefit is the focus on safety.
B. expressed this idea in memorable body language.
Use both hands to mimic a slide (“trekkers sometimes slip”)
Stick his tongue out sideways (“they fall and get hurt”)
Wave hands to the sky (“and then they’re dead!”)
Beginning from Ghorepani we have run across several solo hikers — one from Morocco, another from Israel, another from Chile, all young women, for some reason. Whether they were brave or foolhardy I couldn’t tell. I didn’t mind their doing so, but they were also guide leeches: they asked questions and tips and directions of all guides they came across in tea houses.
It’s hard not to judge them because they were putting not only themselves at risk but also any rescuers who had to come to their aid. And I would have thought that trekkers of all people would respect the laws of the countries they are trekking in.
But speaking of stupid trekkers. N. went to filter our water and missed the second best stupid trekkers story of the day, this one in live action.
It was after dinner and dark outside. People were sitting around the stove in amicable silence when suddenly a man walked in, bare chested and grinning and with a large Nepalese flag planted on his backpack. He grinned at everyone, turned around and left, to be replaced by a larger contingency of about 15 Chinese hikers who collapsed in the various benches, obviously exhausted, stomping their wet and muddy boots.
What were they doing hiking so late? Before any possible answers formed in my mind, one Chinese woman started to scream, yell and cry hysterically, hitting her boots with her hiking poles. From this version of a game of charades, we intelligent beings gathered she had just realized she had leeches stuck on her boots.
Question: what was it that made certain individuals completely unaware of others and the effect their actions have on those around them? It’s something that often baffles me.
The woman’s screams were getting louder.
The boss lady of the tea house was having none of it. She spoke with a stern tone that belied her words in English in well-practiced sentences that made me suspect this wasn’t the first time she was witness to this kind of behavior.
“Brothers and sisters, please, leave now. This is not your tea house… Brothers and sisters, please leave now. You go next door. Next door please.” To the accompaniment of continued yelling and whimpering, they slowly filed out of the restaurant and made their way to their own tea house.
After she kicked them out, she huffed and puffed and beat her cushions, shook her head, and muttered under her breath.
Having missed this very entertaining after-dinner show, N. came back with our water bottles, and we went to bed.
***