The Journey to Sho’La Pass – Part 5 – The Pass, The Wind, and a Daughter

Posted on December 10, 2012 by JeffFuchs

A morning of departure portrait. Myself, Yanpi (centre), and Tenzin

 

Up until the morning of our departure for the pass, our horseman has been a silent man, enjoying being with our group, and loving Yanpi’s bouts of sharp wit. He has done what any good horseman the world over does: taking care of the horse, our kit and leading us along a route that most have forgotten. Horsemen are part of that old world that is slowly fading along with the trade routes. Their protective guidance, tale telling, and skill sets are no longer really something necessary. Guiding, caring for his mount and feeding Yanpi, Tenzin and I tidbits of the history of the route and of the land we pass through, he is what so many of these local characters are: authentic. This morning, however, he is a man who has taken charge of the morning and is a busy body of motion and news. Silence has given way to authority.

Morning camp wakes

We awake in a morning gloom of dense blue air. No sun penetrates into our dark little valley home. Tenzin was either in full chorus last night with his rampant snoring or entirely unable to sleep. He is a small mess of a man this morning and I worry for his health and his resolve. The coming day will be one of non-stop grinding and these sorts of days require a small reserve of energy…which I’m not certain Tenzin has. He is tough beyond words but still I worry.

Yanpi and Tenzin (top) listen in early morning’s bleak light to our horseman’s words

All is still and the tree trunks pop in the frozen air, echoing through the valley walls. Our horseman has a fire going long before we emerge from our sleeping bags. In fact he seems to insist on keeping a fire going all night. His head – as it always seems to be – is straining upwards as he looks at the first bits of light of the day. He is, as he often tells, me studying “the sky’s character” (weather) and taking in far more in a glance and a sniff of the air that I can know.

Some of the nearby landscape’s grandeur that we have not the time to explore

I take my tea into a glade of dry trees a little away from camp and away from the acrid smoke which flavours everything within reach. I like the mornings when I can survey everything from distance and watch the picture unfold. Tenzin is groaning in his morning ritual of rebellion, Yanpi preening himself, and our horseman is issuing us questions, information, and advice. He is a man transformed and I’m happy to see him come into the forefront and assert himself. These are ‘his’ lands that he knows, loves, and fears. We will get back on the main path from our little ‘out of the way’ pad, and head up to the pass. A last little lunch – butter tea, pork fat, and barley bread – will be taken at the base of Sho’La and then we will make the last surge upwards. That is as much of a plan as we need. Our entire team will make for the pass, including our mule who has been sated by a belly of morning bamboo. We pack up all unnecessary gear into our little cave dwelling and cover it up with brush. We will travel light and hope to make the pass by noon and return here to camp.

Yanpi tells me as we begin our ascent that our horseman told him that he was worried about the spirits of the forests and that is why he kept the fire going all night. This wasn’t idle talk to be scoffed at.

Yanpi en route

When locals were spooked or felt that the natural world’s forces were unhappy, an entire expedition could end. I’d been on the unfortunate end of such occurrences before in the mountains. When locals ‘feel’ something, they do so for a reason, whether it be a divine sensation, a tradition, or simply a colour of the sky. It is not a question of money nor of personalities. And so, one must simply learn to listen and learn and then act. Those who fail to listen to the elements are in for a potentially fatal lesson. Our horseman simply nods us forward. We will be fine…for now. It was to Yanpi’s calm and very local interpretation that I often deferred to such times. He was logical, compassionate, and being from these regions, had an ability to empathize. Crucially too, he knew me and my potential questions without asking.

Our mule takes a fall which seemed painfully long while Yanpi races to catch up to assist

“We’re fine as long as we don’t have any issues today with the sky. We are off the mountain tomorrow, so we should be fine”. The horseman actually uses the phrase “as long as the sky is happy”.

He doesn’t detail the concerns other than to say, that due to the fact that there were two recent fatalities upon the route we will take, our horseman feels that the spirit world might not yet be finished its ‘sermon’ to us mortal beings.

Tenzin is in rough shape, moaning his displeasures with almost two weeks of slogging taking a toll. He is however tougher than his complaints might suggest and his little body is bent by years of lugging packs. He only differs in that he has learned to voice his complaints eloquently.

The valleys we make our way through are choked tight with rock, dead trees, and frozen foliage. Frozen ‘spills’ where mountain waters once flowed and flooded lie randomly upon the route and we must carefully circumnavigate their gleaming dangers. Light and its effects are strangers here with only minimal rays of sunlight being allowed to visit and the valleys smell of damp cold.

We come to a wide swath of ice that lies in front of us coating the very ground we must cover, and our horseman carefully comes around one edge hoping to lead the mule over a section with more traction. In an instant our mule has started a frenetic dance as its hooves splay and search for a hold on the ice. The hold doesn’t come as the animal slides off to a side ‘gulley’ off to the side tearing a gash in its side and one on its head as it does so. We race to it. It has stood up and is clearly spooked. It will not move and shows us some of its unhappiness by launching a rear kick at Tenzin. The kick whistles wide and luckily so, as that hoof with power would have broken bones at the very least and our Tenzin would have even more reason to be downcast.

Amalia (our mule) will not budge

Those who have ever said that animals only communicate instinct as opposed to emotion could not have seen that mule’s fury and sense of betrayal, without being moved. Its big eyes speak to its master, pleading, while glaring at Tenzin, Yanpi, and I a moment later.  None of us moves for twenty minutes. Nothing will budge the animal and Yanpi and I decide that in ten minutes if nothing improves we will simply push on alone and let the horseman return to camp to rest and deal with the mule’s moods. Whatever our horseman does – or doesn’t do – our mule decides that it will stay faithful to us and without warning simply continues on its way.

Sho’La’s vaunted designation as both sacred pass and deadly place comes from centuries of travel and struggle over its gorgeous lines. In Tibetan the word “Sho” often refers to the sour yak yoghurt that nomads still eat. It is an off-white colour and many point to this reference and its resemblance to the tones of snow as being significant. “La” simply designates a pass.

A look towards the north

Those who succeed in crossing the pass are said to have eliminated their past ill’s and sins. For traders and travelers heading to Lhasa it also marked the first of the great snow passes on the way to Lhasa. It is said that many first-time muleteers, having gone through Sho’La’s tempests and eccentric moods, quit (or worse, died) in fear of having to cross more of these deadly passes.

My first journey years ago across its spine took place in the month of May and a team of 6 of us came close to losing two members in a blizzard that lives on in white potency in my mind. The pass is an elegant-faced beast that doesn’t need an alter ego. I’ve been atop its stunning cusp with winds blazing at close to 80 kph hugging the ground in desperation and love of its force while simultaneously marveling at its absolute beauty. It is a place that impacts.

Around us the only sound that raises itself to the ear is the precise sounding ice stream that rushes downwards off to our left.  Landscapes like this leave little headspace for other places, people, or even thoughts. Mountains and passes demand everything to be in the very vital ‘now’.

We must pass through this clean silence to access a place that is never without shuddering winds and a shrieking backdrop.

When we exit into the larger ‘welcoming’ valley that marks the entrance to the Sho’La ascent the sun is finally unimpeded to blast us. We take our last tea and snack break before our final push. Tenzin sprawls out on the ground and is asleep in a minute, while the wind scurries about us in an ever-strengthening force.  Our horseman squats with butter tea in hand and looks to the pass and tells Yanpi that he and the mule – who I’ve named ‘Amalia’ (a Hungarian name meaning ‘work’) – will not make the final stretch of journey. Tenzin, who we wake, also lets us know that he won’t make the final. Tenzin’s eyes are sheepish when he tells us the news but I know that it is a decision that, however difficult, is a smart one. His body, and more crucially his will, are not in it.

Our last little bit of butter tea and the trailhead where Yanpi and I depart

The three of them will remain at our tea site and head back to camp after resting. Yanpi then looks at me with those ever-calm eyes and simply says,“We go”? Yes, we go. Our horseman gently touches both of our arms as we leave with a nod of the head. Go safely. Tenzin tells us meekly that he’ll have coffee ready at camp which only brings a grunt from Yanpi.

Sho’La, as always, seems “just over there” but that “over there” in mountain terms often takes hours. Yanpi leads us into the ‘red valley’, which sits below the pass and encapsulates a basin. On our western flank a slanting wall of red arches up spectacularly. It dares you not to gaze at it and even Yanpi’s head is turned for long spells as he leads. We have almost four hundred metres of altitude to ascend.

Yanpi looks over my shoulder to the passes summit

Yanpi on this day opens up about his life, his dreams and worries. They are the worries of a father, a husband, and a man with a good mind. It is as though the mountains have suddenly provided a forum for any and all thoughts to be voiced and it is this sort of opening up that is a welcome thing on an ascent. Heading southwest to the pass we move through the shadows of the northern edge of Sho’La which is barren of ice and snow.

A bit further up still, I look to the pass

It is the first time I’ve not seen any residue of sleek white. Only the dust puffs of our treading feet. I recall wading through hip deep snow just months ago. The winds are thankfully present and it romps and pummels us. Our last 30 minutes are spent in silence. Limbs and lungs take priority over conversations.

The pass…looking east along its ridge

Arrivals seem something almost anti-climactic at times. We are suddenly there on the great pass with its wondrous history of hosting, blowing, and killing. Without snow it is shorn down to its bones looking leaner and edgier. The lack of snow is disturbing. An aspect of the heights in the Himalayan world is that they are inevitably layered in the spiritual world’s colours and ornaments. Prayer flags, mani stones, juniper and even shrines, mark places that in the west one would need climbing gear to access.

Yanpi atop Sho’La

We pay homage to the pass and give salutations for our Tenzin, our horseman and even our mule Amalia. We also pay regards to Ngawa and Songjè, two forces who helped get us here but couldn’t be with us now. Yanpi sits facing south cross-legged hunched in the cold winds and snapping prayer flags just staring, while I pace and take in as much of the detail as I can. We spend twenty minutes on the pass before we simply look at one another and move off having been re-infused with energy.

Myself and Yanpi atop Sho’La

On the way down Yanpi tells me that he was thinking of his daughter when he was at the pass and he felt that he wished she was there with us.

It will take us just over two hours to get to camp. We are racing against the winter sun’s disappearence. We move fast, skipping over logs, along rocks and through branches. Descents on slick freezing stones, in shadowed light don’t make for a relaxed journey.

We pick up the scent of familiar smoke at one point and though the light is dying we recognize our little turnoff to the camp. Tenzin is tending fire and smiles at us. Our horseman looks us over top to bottom, welcoming us, and Tenzin shoves a coffee at us in our tin mugs.

Tenzin’s snoring is in full and muscular chorus that evening and I wander along the glacial stream which is lit by our fire’s glow. Somewhere in the woods an animal crashes through the underbrush and then all is still.

A photo shot by Tenzin of my face as we negotiated icy roads on our way back to ‘Shangri-La’. More stress in that look that in nearly two weeks of trekking

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The Journey to Sho’La Pass – Part 4 – The Smell of the Pass

Posted on December 6, 2012 by JeffFuchs

Baima’s empty valleys and snow shards stare at us. We have left Benzilan behind and ‘Ngawa the Machine’ is no longer with us. Mountain air now thankfully dominates the heat infested valleys and the lethargy that heat brought, gives way to sense-sharpening cold winds and dry thumping pops of air pressure fluctuations. Baima (White Horse) Snow Mountain doesn’t get much attention but it is lofty and holds beautiful angular lines of snow and stone. It is a gateway of sorts to what lies beyond. Songjè too has gone back home, unwilling to stray so far from home upon trails he is unfamiliar with. Yanpi, Tenzin and I trudge forward.

One of Baima’s crater like valleys welcomes and warns…

Yanpi has gotten stronger as the journey has progressed and Tenzin’s feet are on the mend though he is not sleeping well. For me the cold is waking me up and pulling me into its big hug with a dose of stimulant bite. Cold can invigorate and resuscitate the senses and soul. We are getting closer the grand width and shrieking power of Sho’La pass and in my mind’s eye I can see it beckoning like an ancient homeland.

We pass the grandeur and gleaming power of Meili Snow Mountain (Kawa Karpo to locals) and its stunning ‘wife’, Metzomo. The two sacred mountains stand far from eachother as though still figuring out whether their own union is one that is desirable. Kawa Karpo is said to have a deity living within; a warrior on horseback and a slick little moustache, who changed his warring ways and attained enlightenment in a single lifetime.

Further south of the the Kawa Karpo bulk, Metzomo’s clean lines climb up

To test his ire is fatal, it is said. To climb upon his sacred slopes is to test those fuzzy concepts of fate We decide not to test him. It is odd that we rush past such majesty, but our human desires lie on a hidden pass, not the overwhelming vistas of the snowcaps. I feel the mountain’s outright beauty grip and tease me but ultimately my thoughts are with another. Always the pass draws me, draws us, like a stone beacon of power.

It takes us almost three days from Benzilan but we arrive to Sho’la’s base town of Merishu and a local horseman awaits us. His mule looks like it has been through every war ever fought with scars, gashes, and old wounds decorating its skin in a patchwork of lines. The horseman himself is a squat, powerful man with a wide face who tells us of a lifetime of mountains and the heart condition it has given him. He is a friend of a friend of ours. We’ve been told he is a slow but steady traveler who will not push his mule, which suits us just fine. Speed at this point has no interest, but progress does. We are here and in two days we’ll reach Sho’la.

An elder watches our team prepare. How many such preparations has she witnessed. She tells us “many”.

It lies through a westward series of switchback valleys of stone, then south and then west again. At times I feel like I can hear the pass and its howling winds. At one point Tenzin tells me bluntly “your senses and desires are running too far ahead”. Whether he refers to the feelings I have for the pass or for life in general, he doesn’t clarify, but it matters not.

We begin an ascent that will take us up almost 2000 metres

There are three informal entrances that ascend to Sho’la. We will take one that is more direct but less used. There is little talk as we prepare but our horseman’s entire family (all women) come out cooing and making sure that his care package is bulging with goodies for his journey. It slows me down and impresses upon me what travel here is. Though he will not travel far and will only be gone three days there is the worry that people who live intimately with the land have. The mighty elements and stresses of the geography here are tangibles dealt with on every single day. They are not distant concepts but rather they are the ‘here and now’.

A moment of rest brings the deep bond of our horseman and his mule into a closer focus. They are bound because of their history and because of the need to be bound

Our horseman’s daughters and wife implore us all to be safe, telling us that there was an old woman and young girl recently found dead along the route. They had fatigued and frozen to death in an embrace just beyond the pass. Even now, the Pass’s power can dictate how one’s days end.

Pilgrims and hunters still use the routes, but the days of trade and caravans have sadly passed. Many pilgrims still underestimate the pass and for locals it has long been known as the “Pass of two faces”. Hunters never underestimate the forces at work in the height; a visual delight one moment, and a sky-fueled fury the next. Every year pilgrims die and even locals occasionally find themselves locked into disorienting blizzards which are rarely forgiving.

Yanpi looks back while Tenzin studies the sky’s mood

On previous journeys here I’ve always had crystal clear dreams during the hours of dark. They are the high altitude dreams of intense colour and sensation and the region has always left an imprint upon me. There are places that hold some of us for whatever reason. They draw us, hold us, and whisper and scream at us, and then, without a fuss they let us go. Sho’La for me is one of these places.

One of our typical journey meals. Tea, boiled eggs, local bread and of course more tea

We move at last. It is late morning and limbs are slightly fidgety, as we want to begin the ascent. Yanpi shows quickly a natural ability with not only locals, but with the mule as well, issuing out “clucks” and high whistles, which are responded to instantly by our four-legged mate. Tenzin’s attempts to urge the mule on with shrieks and loud yells seem to piss off our mule more than anything, and at one point it simply stops and looks back at Tenzin as if to communicate that one more such unnecessary outburst and it will refuse to budge…or worse. Yanpi in his quiet sarcastic tone tells Tenzin that he should worry about the route and leave the mule to those who know.

 

Our horseman studies the sky for signs of changing conditions. This habit was something repeated dozens of times daily

The horseman is a gentle bull who rarely speaks but keeps an eye upon the narrow slit of sky above us. The valley is tight as we climb and the sky’s language is studied for good reason. Every slight change in wind, every discoloration and tint of the sky is studied, smelled and studied some more. As the altitude steadily ascends, weather’s unpredictable variances mean far more to our own endeavour.

Moving ever higher to camp

We are gobbling up metres, crossing and re-crossing a voracious, ice cold mountain stream. At times I speculate upon the traders of the route who travelled so much of their lives on such paths, and that they must have been sublime philosophers who balanced their faith in the fates and in their abilities with near brilliance. One must simply endure. On the other hand I wonder if many such muleteers must have simply been desperate and had the constitution for such ceaseless travel through elements.

Priceless, relentless, valuable and obstinate, our mule is an absolute necessity, though its role and use in the mountains has been downgraded with the advent of vehicles

Our eventual camp is off the part within a small basic of protective rock. It has been used by hunters and locals for centuries and looks well-worn and almost cared for. We choose it because of its protective shroud of stone preventing winds from hitting us, and because our horseman tells us that it is as far as he will ascend on this day. We have ascended 1800 metres in good time and take our time setting up camp in the dimming light.

Myself and our beloved horseman rest our limbs

One of my nightly habits is to soak my feet in the blistering glacial streams. It acts as both a slightly masochistic tonic and a cleanser that leaves me simultaneously feeling intense pain and a kind of puritanical pleasure. It takes only seconds until the bones in my feet feel as though they have been pulverized.

I am briefly convinced my soaking actually makes sense in frigid waters

Back at the fire Tenzin is at it again, making us his ridiculously sweet coffees. Somehow this little pleasure of his seems to make him right again. He is a man who needs his little treats to stay sane, which in turn keeps the rest of us sane. A small amount of coffee, followed by a long dump of white sugar and it is ready in our tin cups. I refuse, knowing full well that it will send me into a night of tossing and sleepless introspection, that I don’t need. Tenzin pawns off my cup to the unsuspecting horseman and I wonder if he knows what he is about to consume. A loud groan of carnal pleasure escapes from Tenzin as he takes a long and noisy slurp of the muddy liquid. Yanpi is his usual efficient self preparing our camp and taking a little amusement in giving Tenzin orders to set up our minimal cooking gear.

Yanpi is a bit of a perfectionist in his languid way and in an informal way, the cooks on these expeditions are always the bosses. Dishes must be spotless and the area surrounding the campfire must be ordered and tidy. Yanpi detests messes of any kind which differs from Tenzin’s rather casual approach to organization. It has become a running joke that Tenzin can never find what he’s looking for in less than 20 minutes. Another little habit of his is that he never remembers to do up his various zippers. Pockets hang open spilling items over the ground and it is usually when he bends over that we all collectively hear the “clunk” of various things falling to the ground.

Proud Yanpi with the last of our green veggie supply

Yanpi has managed to save us some green veggies for dinner. A huge soup with both known and unknown content is fired up on our fire and we tuck in, saying very little. Our horseman disappears mid-dinner without a word taking only an axe and a long wicked looking knife. He has no headlamp or flashlight at all. He simply walks off into the cold forest. We look after him wondering and even his mules seems to stare out into the dark for its master.

A feast awaits

Twenty minutes later he returns dragging neatly cut bamboo stalks from “up on the mountain”. He explains that it will be a nourishing treat for his mule. He sets the vividly green leaves and small stalks on the ground near the mule’s tethered ground.

The mule eats up his sumptuous green treats paying us no attention at all. We stay up late and the coffee takes a firm grip of our poor horseman, just as Tenzin falls into one of his noisy sleeps.

Our horseman as the dark moves in

Sho’La’s bristling edges will welcome us tomorrow.

Wasting no time after dinner, Tenzin is out in minutes

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The Journey to Sho’La Pass – Part 3 – A Route of Stone and Ngawa’s Wife

Posted on December 4, 2012 by JeffFuchs

Heat and its lethargy inducing powers have long played havoc with my own senses and perspectives. I am not alone in this feeling. Exiting our safe cool forests, and descending into the hot valleys, I feel the itch of impatience and the head gets heavy. Tenzin has an almost psychotic look in his eye brought on by the heat and only Yanpi looks to have escaped its effects. Ngawa is covered in a second skin of sweat but still he will not shed clothing nor slow down. He is intent on getting to his native home and it is as though a beacon of light that draws him on is leading him. At one point Tenzin loses patience with Ngawa’s relentless pace and he wastes no time in telling Ngawa that his pace is “too macho” and that on our journey, “we cannot be worried about impressing eachother with our strength”. Ngawa, a fiercely proud man with a notorious temper and fighting skills to match looks at Tenzin gently and surprisingly says nothing, but noticeably drops the pace slightly. He then tells Tenzin that thus far, he has been using a slow pace and that Tenzin must speed up.

Songjè leads his horse along the hot Yangtze valley. To the right is the Yangtze River, which at this time of year is a slow moving behemoth.

At last we meet the Yangtze, which at this time of year is a golden mud colour and it too looks lethargic as though mirroring our own team’s feeling with the heat. Our lunch, taken over a fire is a silent affair while the sun continues to bludgeon us with its power. It isn’t only the sun which disturbs us. We have come back to vestiges of the ‘world of civilization’ and along the river vehicles re-enter our lives. They seem strange and totally foreign.

Our journey continues by foot along a main road for 10 kilometres before crossing a bridge to the western side of the Yangtze. Crossing the bridge I notice Tenzin limping. Both of his formidable feet have developed blisters and he is silently grimacing with each step. The heat has created humidity and friction in his boots and he slows, while Ngawa, heeding no one’s attempts to slow down is now far out in front.

Ngawa, Songjè and our horse make their way west over the Yangtze and out of the sun

Everything is dry with dust puffing up under each step. Our team is now spread over a kilometer in length like a small chain of dark figures. Again we are ascending along a path that continues to narrow as though it might eventually disappear altogether. Our route now teases me as the rocks have been worn down into grooves showing the undeniable evidence of the centuries of hoofs and caravan traffic. As the landscape changes, so too does my impression of the route and I cannot help but notice that we are leaving one powerful geography and heading into another.

Yanpi makes his way up and ever-thinning route of dust that was the Tea Horse Road

Mountains seem to be able to recreate landscapes at will. Every hundred metres our entire site-line changes as we are offered up new vistas. The sunlight too rearranges shadows and highlights making new worlds appear.

Tenzin (left) and Yanpi take refuge in a cave. In Tenzin’s left hand is a medical kit which he use to treat his feet, which by this point are simply raw pieces of meat.

Yanpi’s movie star features have darkened in the sun and even he too has gone silent in the midst of the trek. Tenzin, Yanpi and I take a break in a cave along the route, where Tenzin can bandage his feet which are bright red, swollen and full of white blisters. In the fading afternoon light we realize we cannot delay too much as to be stranded on the ledges in the dark would be a daunting task.

Ahead of us Ngawa leads the horse once again, while Songjè (who we later find out suffers from a bit of vertigo) scurries after him, at times doing anything he can to avoid looking down at the sudden plunge off to our right. His figure at times seems to do a little dance pursuing his own horse and Ngawa.

Songjè scurries after Ngawa and the horse along a portion of the Tea Horse Road trail

Coming around a bend I am halted by Ngawa’s screams. I spot him maybe 500 metres ahead but cannot hear his words clearly above the wind, which is now starting to blow in with more power. Ngawa holds up his hand to stop and then points up above me. I hear the dangerous sounds of clattering rocks and then there is a whoosh as a small landslide skids, and races down the mountain right where I would have been. High above our route, fearless goats scamper about on the loose dirt, which starts off little rockslides randomly, which cascade down like water.

A mere strip of route remains along our passage…off to the right a 50 metre plunge to stone and the Yangtze awaits

Our route is a marvel. Cutting through stone while following the inevitable contours of the land and mountains, it is a blend of both man’s will and fealty to the powers of nature and economics. It is what makes the Tea Horse Road’ eternal …unstoppable, unending and relentless. No snow pass, no sheer ledge or cliff can retard its push forward through the mountains.

When we all do reach Ngawa’s hometown of Dura, it is with a relief as the sky’s light drops off quickly in the November sky and the trails are no place to be when the dark night sky moves in.

Seen from a higher vantage point the way in which we have come, looking south

Ngawa’s ancient father, a man who travelled for 30 years along the caravan trails and who managed to father 12 children is a remarkably soft looking man who seems quite content with life. He immediately gravitates to Songjè and welcomes him and his horse taking the horse for some treats…even at close to ninety-years old he knows well that a happy horse is a necessity. Ngawa’s mother is the fire-breather and is a dark figure of lines, twinkling eyes and mischief. She howls with laughter at Songjè’s tales of the fearsome route and berates her son Ngawa for risking such a “handsome man and horse “. She has hands like cleavers and apart from layers of lines on her face, she is spry, feisty and in perpetual motion.

Ngawa’s mother cracks open a walnut (a local delicacy) for a local child

 

It feels good arriving in a community and being cared for. Ngawa, Songjè, Tenzin, and Yanpi are all basking in the attention of being guests and slightly exotic arrivals to the town. Reaching here I realize that as much as we crave the attention and little luxuries that a town can offer, we are also slightly out of practice at being social and must remember our manners.

Here our horse gets a well deserved break with all sorts of luxuries afforded to him

We feast in a series of silent attacks, followed by butter tea and then drop off into the world of sleep quickly. Tenzin’s feet are a mess of red swelling and he is in silent pain. He walks with the stiff-limbed motion of someone whose muscles and skin are all in rebellion. We all sleep upstairs in simple wooden rooms with our sleeping bags layed out but I move out onto an open area so that I can see the nighttime sky. It is one of the world’s great wonders: to see stars looming above you as you pass into the world of sleep.

One of the many discussion that the men had about directions, tales of the past…and confusion

Two days later and heat is still in our lives, though more and more often there are breaths of the mountains hitting us. Amidst the heat there are sudden gusts of clear, sinus cleansing cold winds; and then they are gone but these winds bare the unmistakable tang of the Himalayas and the beckon us on.

We wind our way through the valleys and course through small towns that have remained off-grid for centuries. Ngawa is a beast. He insists on leading and he takes only minimal breaks, sometimes speaking to villagers and explaining later to us in that very local way that the person was “my father’s, brother’s, wife’s youngest son”, or something equally complicated. His isn’t a complicated person and his strengths and weaknesses are there for all to see, but he is beyond all other things, loyal to those who he deems worthy of his respect.

Knees and joints are starting to feel that comfortable kind of strain that most good treks bring with them. Our days are anywhere from 6-10 hours of trekking a day and what challenges the muscles and bones is the non-stop series of ascents and descents. We are rarely on flat ground for more than an hour and progress always seems slower than one would like. The mountains though, are like this: they slowly make one understand that they demand patience, strength and understanding. Anything less and they will grind you into dust without offering up any of its magic to console you.

Ngawa makes his way up a natural stairway along the Tea Horse Road climbing ever-higher

We make it to the ancient town of Ponzera (known now as Benzilan), a heat-infested town that remains a domain of sun year round. Locked into a valley along the Yangtze River it was a town with the caravan routes and the Tea Horse Road literally in its every breath for hundreds of years.  Known for exquisitely carved butter tea bowls, made from the roots of rhododendron bushes and trees, Ponzera became known for providing the caravan teams with the very best muleteers.

Cactus lines the route…as does an incredible heat

Yanpi, for one night at least, doesn’t have to worry about cooking as we visit a local restaurant and assault as many vegetable and mushroom dishes as we can manage. We are stained with dust and sun, and every piece of clothing and hair smells of acrid wood smoke. Tenzin’s eyes are bloodshot from the sun and pain that still throbs in the souls of his feet.

Weathered and worn, a portion of the Tea Horse Road lies etched along a mountainside. We are the only travellers along its length on this day.

We learn that Ngawa will not join us for the remainder of our journey. His wife has called him and even a force such as Ngawa doesn’t dare risk the ire of a wife. It is a sudden announcement but in some ways a little comical. This mountain-bred man of incalculable toughness and grit being called by his wife who demands he return immediately.

After Ponzera, our bodies will be required to ascend once again. We will be moving through the lands which hum and suffer under the Himalayan wind’s force. We are getting ever closer to our sacred Shola Pass as well.

Yanpi (left), myself, and Tenzin recline and get ready for a ‘restaurant meal’ in Benzilan

Ngawa leaves us and tells me to “greet the great pass for me”. He and I had been to the Shola Pass earlier in the year and the mighty beauty and ferocious elements had brought tears to the tough man’s eyes. When he left he looked downcast, as he would have much rather joined us to ascend the pass than head home, but I knew his wife well and she was not a woman to mess with. He understood his duty to home well.

 

Yanpi tells me later, “we’ll miss his strength in the mountains”. As we would find out, we would indeed miss him in the mountains.

 

 

 

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A Tea Lover’s Blog Post about Jalamteas November 7th Tea Event

Posted on December 3, 2012 by JeffFuchs

Rare stories and rarer tea with Jeff Fuchs here. An evening of Jalamteas presenting a new model of Subscribing for rare teas.

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The Journey to Sho’La Pass – Part 2 – Sandalwood and Heat

Posted on December 3, 2012 by JeffFuchs

What is eternally rivetting about the mountains is their ability to hold traces of what has come before on their surfaces, while simultaneously holding unimaginable power. Tucked away, under forest cover, within valleys, and particularly on the stone, the trails we seek – and travel upon – are there. The have been hidden only until we spot vestiges of them, and then, even if briefly, they come back to life. Oceans and seas obliterate and erase but mountains and their isolated heights are able to preserve a kind of scarred history of life upon them.

Yanpi half plunges, half stalks along a small pathway through the dense forests. At times we are not sure whether we are on the right route or not.

Our team makes its way along a path of dirt in the dry air that looks to have been dug with a small spoon a long time ago. In history, the route we are upon was used as an access path from the Yangtze River’s valley communities to Gyalthang (Shangri-La), but its extender routes (those which we will follow) have far more interest to us: passageways that weave their way to that old friend of mine (and my eternal obsession) the Tea Horse Road. In these parts, the elders still refer to that ‘road’ as the Dre’lam or Dru’lam (mule road). It could also be referred to as simply “the route of feet”. Anything with feet carted something of value to someone, somewhere.

Our horse simply stops at one point and refuses to continue. It takes 10 minutes of coaxing to get him to move. He makes his point though…

During a break, Ngawa tells us of how for a seven-year period from the time he was 13 he took part in caravans hauling everything from clothing to fruit along these pathways to and from his poor village. Walnuts, peppercorns, salt, and of course that great distinguished green leaf, tea, were all carted on the backs of men and mule along this route. Little in the past three or four decades has passed along here except for gangs of wild horses, or the occasional herders.

Locals take horses across the Shika Range in the opposite direction

Ngawa smokes whenever there is a break in our movement, but carefully dabs his cigarette butts out in a puddle of his own saliva to ensure there is no chance of fire. Fire and its risks here, in this paradise of wood, is beyond deadly; it runs against the very spirit of our endeavor. Ngawa with his limitless strength and energy seems at odds with his habit but I’d long learned not to try and make sense of ‘habits’.

Songjè waxes eloquently about the route to Yanpi (right) and Ngawa (centre)

Songjè tells us of how when he was young he would bring his yak herds up here to graze, but now that has faded to an end as well. It feels as we follow Ngawa’s lead, that nature is preserving these portions of trail while at the same time obliterating it. Time cares not about sentiment and so it remains vital that we not only travel the route but that something is taken down about this pathway, something is passed along and remembered.

A comfort, a sanctuary, and a zone where we can stop moving…but only temporary

Yanpi, stylish as ever, wanders ahead to Ngawa to share some words as they are both from warm valley towns along the Yangtze and share the same dialect and sense of humor. Tenzin, who is stooped over with his load is off on his own, which seems to suit him fine. He is often lost in thought, with a grimace or frown on his face as if he is in some kind of eternal problem solving mode. He tells me that his mind “gets very busy” when he treks, though whether he actually solves any of his problems I never know.

Unloading the horse we must take all of our gear under the ‘bridge’ and then reload on the other side.

We head west over the Shika Range, then south through small dark valleys of shadowy cold. Sun and its effects are rarely felt in some of the tight wedges that we travel through. Mosses hang from trees and at times we must hold up while one of us hacks through the foliage so that our horse may pass through unscathed. At three points during our journey we must unload everything off the horse while it passes under trees – enormous trees – which have fallen across our path. They create massive obstacles but we’ve no choice. We are literally walled in on either side and there are no alternatives. For some an expedition is a search, for others a meditation, and still others view it as a physical endeavor and necessity. Our own journey has the advantage of being a journey without certainties of exact times and places.

Songjè leads his horse under one of the many natural barriers along the route.

Our route follows the natural confluence of the land, and we dip and bend with the route. The route is what matters and it is the route that holds us to its every meter.

Ngawa, Songjè, and Yanpi all take turns explaining the various plants and their medicinal properties. Songjè tells us of a time when virtually ever single plant and tree had a function and benefit. He gets younger as he speaks and as his body takes in the geography, his body seems to lighten.

Everyone in our group has a different speed. Ngawa with his big engine wishes to race through the environment, while Yanpi seems to take great pleasure is simply staring into the damp undergrowth and savouring each new little vista. Songjè, as always, simply wants to make the route for his horse as smooth as possible. My own mind is intent on the route itself and I often find my mind drifting back to a time when this route upon which we travel hummed with activity and life. We make it to just under 4,000 meters before gradually descending.

Songjè grumbles while reloading for the 5th time in a day, while Ngawa tries to make himself helpful

Ngawa’s father, now in his late eighties, was a muleteer (“la’do” in Tibetan, meaning “hands of stone”) who traveled the length of Yunnan, deep into Tibet and even on into India hauling any good that had value. In some ways I think Ngawa is slightly envious of the adventure-life of his father. Ngawa confesses at one point on our walk that “he travelled the Himalayas, slept under the stars, saw the ‘world’, and had twelve children”. Yes, a bit of envy. We will in the course of this journey meet up with the old man and I wonder if that is why Ngawa wishes to move so fast.

At one juncture we are faced with a dilemma that ‘almost’ becomes ugly. Before us, an almost vertical drop, which is accessed by a path a mere meter wide. On one side a plunge meters deep and on the other side a sheer wall that shoots thirty meters high, under which the little path goes down. We have no choice. Our only alternative to moving on is to turn back, though we won’t turn back; this isn’t something we’ll consider. Even for those of us with two legs, this pathway will take a delicate bit of prancing to get down; for our horse it will be nearly impossible with its wide bulging load. Songjè starts to growl his displeasure, telling us that his “horse will die on this journey”, and that “I wasn’t told we’d be ‘climbing’”. He even dramatically suggests that this is “too much”. The rest of us know that we must keep Songjè happy. We speak to him with soft reason, and start gently unloading his horse, though he tells us we’re being sloppy and rough pushing us away. Tenzin is running around doing anything he can, while Ngawa is offering a cigarette to Songjè to placate him. Yangpi simply smiles and winks at me. He knows this is a delicate game.

Here a pensive Songjè (right) poses uncomfortably with me while we try to ease his troubles. He isn’t happy with the route and we must find ways to placate him. At the end of each day though, he is content and tells us how much he enjoys the challenges…but every day we worry that he quit. He never does.

Each bag is taken off of our horse and carefully carried down the slope by us, then our horse is carefully led down the stones without the burden of its load. At one point the horse simply stops and then without any warning it starts to slide down, while madly scrambling its four hooves to gain traction. Songjè’s face is dark with concern, while Ngawa suddenly takes charge, grabbing the horse’s reigns and forcefully pulling the frantic animal. While he does this he issues out a series of screams, whistles, and urgings at the horse. The horse seems to sense that Ngawa’s force of personality inspires confidence and regains control of its skittish legs.

Ngawa is a rough but competent man and the horse comprehends this. As we load the horse back up having safely made it down the plunge, Songjè looks at Ngawa with and tells him “Next time, treat the horse my way, not your way. It doesn’t understand your methods”. Having said that, there is in his voice some grudging respect and perhaps even a little gratitude.

Hours later with the sun long gone, we have slowed the pace and enter into a valley that smells of an almost sumptuous scent. It is as though we’ve suddenly walked into a different room, so powerful is the effect. Dark cold is coming out of the earth, but that scent which is almost narcotic seems to overpower all of the senses. Setting up camp with our fire humming in the blue black of coming night, Tenzin tells me that the entire valley is populated by Sandalwood trees, which is what is giving off the perfumed aroma. He grabs needles from one of the trees and throws them into the fire. The smoke-filled air turns magic with the oil of the needles having been released.

A collector pool of mountain spring water nearing our exit point from the Shika range

Tenzin sets up a tent and then immediately begins preparing four nuclear-strength cups of Nescafè. He knows I will take my Puerh tea rather than his powerful elixir of muddy colour. Songjè tells us that he needs something “sweet”. Tenzin takes this to mean that he will add a horrendously large amount of sugar in Songjè’s coffee. When I ask Songjè if he’s ever even had coffee, he shakes his head in the negative. “But I need something after today”.

Songjè will not sleep on this night. His sleeping bag is next to mine and the entire evening he spends turning over and complaining. Two cups of coffee and a potent amount of sugar for a novice will do this.

Either side of our pathways gushes with mountain rivers which will race down into the Yangtze River

At 7:30 am the next day we march out of our camp, and by 9 am we move out of the  forest’s cool grip and down into the pulverizing heat of the Yangtze River valley.  I immediately miss the forests fresh embrace, as the heat is overwhelming. Only Ngawa continues to move forward quickly. We will meet his father tonight in a small town with no roads and spend the night thirty meters away from a portion of the caravan trail. But first more heat.

A final push through a small valley and we make it into more heat and into the Yangtze River Valley

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The Journey to Sho’La Pass – Part 1 – Horsemen Are Always Late…

Posted on November 25, 2012 by JeffFuchs

Songjè the horseman is late. It isn’t unusual for this part of the world, but still the same, it is something that burrows its way into me. For moments it seems as though his absence will delay the entire expedition. For all of the years I’ve lived and travelled and wandered in this eastern extension of the Himalayas, I’ve never fully gotten used to lateness and yet time is something very elastic here. Songjè though is our ‘elder statesman’ on this journey and he has been carefully picked because I trust (through experience) in his abilities both as a horseman, and as a calming force of energy for our team. Without a horseman – and a good one – expeditions of any length can change from being an ‘exploration’ to simple grunt work. We need enough kit and gear to keep us relatively autonomous. Food, essentials, extra-warmth, mountain kit, tents and even a few little essential treats like honey and chocolate will be packed making our unit in need only of fire and water. For this we need a horseman. And so our team waits under a brilliant morning sun, irked and slightly stressed for this star of intrepid travel to arrive.

When he does arrive, he is (as always) immaculate, smiling, and ready

Early November mornings in Shangri-La have the habit of holding the kind of cold that requires continuous movement to keep the blood circulating, and our team stretches, and shakes itself as it keeps its eyes peeled for the very crucial figure of Songjè and his vital horse. Around us, huge red 140 liter packs lie on the cold frozen earth waiting for a to be loaded. Every once in a while one of the team glances at me as if to question whether I’ve really picked the right guy for the job. I carefully avoid acknowledging their glances and hope.

We are tucked into a wedge of a village between Napa Lake and the Shika Mountain Range and the morning sounds of village life stir around us. The ‘we’ is the very vital team for the upcoming journey. Four of us (not including the charismatic and competent Songjè who is missing) will walk for the next 10 days northwards to the sacred Sho’la Pass near the Tibetan borderlands. At present each member has his own little morning habit that they are performing with no risk of shame. The sky hangs in layers of early morning blue and not even a hint of breath moves around us. Amidst the little ensemble of east-facing Tibetan homes around us that catch the sun, we are perhaps the first foolish enough to exit the warmth of walls on this morning.

An elderly local watches with great interest as our team prepares near his village. He said to us that “it’s been many many years since anyone used this trail”.

The team itself is a mix of power, ingenuity, and knowledge. Assembling teams is often one of the most difficult aspects of an expedition as one needs a kind of breadth of skill sets, and the personalities need to blend. Tenzin, a lean sharp man who misses nothing is sipping a hideously sweet coffee out of a thermos and doing a little shuffle to get the legs warmed up. Tenzin is someone whose energy flow is entirely on, or completely shut off and his specialty is finding camps and burrowing through unchartered terrain. Fortunately at the present, his energy seems to be entirely ‘on’.

Tenzin waits…

Right now his dark eyes spark with life (both from the impatience of wanting to go and from the onslaught of caffeine in his system). Beside him is the implacable and handsome Yanpi, whose wide features and sense of calm sanity act as a kind of natural balance to Tenzin’s restless nature. Yanpi is another ‘absolute’ as he is the cook and a calm decision maker who isn’t swayed by moods; in fact his mood in all of the years I’ve known him has seemingly remained completely steady. Steady and calm are always good counterbalances to the other forces that are necessary upon journeys. Yanpi’s hair is swept back off of his forehead and he dons a very fashionable pair of sunglasses while he stares off at the little path that we will take shortly.

The elegant one of our troupe

There is something of an elegance to him that keeps our team civilized, and I’ve often noted that women of every age and nationality seem to swoon ever so slightly around him.

Off to the side, hidden under a puffy down jacket and his trademark black wool cap perched on his head, is the livewire machine Ngawa. Unlimited amounts of energy and a natural ability in the outdoors, his skill set is more suited to a kind of caretaker-honor guard of our team.

Yanpi (left) and Ngawa enjoy a moment

Able to create camps, find fuel (and I can well imagine fight off any threat we might have), Ngawa is what I like to refer to as the ‘muscle’ of the group. He is from a town that we will pass through and is well versed in the trails that we intend to follow. Ngawa is also – as a point of interest – one of twelve children from a very poor family, so his toughness comes entirely naturally.

Doing what he does best…preparing the kit upon the horse using age-old knot systems which have never (in my experiences at least) come loose during an expedition.

As for myself, I squat in the early morning sun, trying to thaw out with my own morning ‘need’, a thermos of potently strong Bang Ma Puerh tea, which is slowly coursing through every fiber of my being. I have a half cake of it tucked away in my pack, and it is one item that I never leave home without. As I look over the team, I have that pleasant feeling that the members have the right chord of balance. There is too, that wonderful little feeling of excitement that always comes, that I’m about to depart into the mountains and their great histories and shapes with everything that is needed. Mountains are one of those elixirs of life that is a constant in my life, just as the tea is.

What lies in wait: the understated but stunning lines of Shika

Off to the distant left there is the sound of “clop, clop, clop” and there, like some sort of screen-idol mirage, with a Stetson hat topping off the image, is Songjè astride his horse. Irrepressible in his earnestness, as he approaches his smile disarms us, pushing his lateness into obscurity. He has arrived and that is all that matters.

Songjè himself is another hand-picked choice. Marvelously competent with securing loads of gear upon his horse, he is at 60, still strong and vibrant and his words, “Being on the road is much preferable to sitting at home watching time go by” had long etched him into my pysche. Handsome, with massive hands, he treats his horse with a kind of gentle reverence and speaks to it almost continuously in a soft voice.

There is a very perceptible easing of tensions when he arrives wrapped in a rather flamboyant yellow scarf. He wastes no time is introducing himself to the team and then immediately he sets off tying up our loads onto his horse.

Winter has coloured the grasslands in soft browns and yellows

Our route, our planned route that is, is as hidden and special as the ultimate destination. Our journey will be a bit of time travel as we will follow an obscure and long overgrown portion of the Tea Horse Road northwest, through remote villages and along decayed lengths of stone that once ushered the great tea caravans out of Yunnan and onto the Tibetan Plateau. We will chart a route way west and north from here in Gyal’thang (now simply Shangri-La) along the ridgelines that course high above the Yangtze River.

Tenzin and Yanpi look over the proposed route…on a handmade map of sorts

With us, we have the local version of “must haves”: butter for the inevitable amounts of butter tea, hard-boiled eggs, tsampa (ground barley), ‘guun’ (the resin heavy pine that aids in starting up fires), loads of tea, and some treats for our horse. Songjè has brought along dried corn kernels, a special kind of grass in a bag, and even extra dried barley stalks all to ensure that his horse does in fact have a five course meal for his travels.

The journey begins with Songjè leading

Our journey will (bones and fates willing) culminate in one of the grand and sacred passes of the legendary Tea Horse Road, the beautiful 4,815 meter bulk of the Sho’la Pass. Our ultimate goal is to summit the remarkable and deadly Pass, which marked the unofficial gateway into Tibet. Sho’La also can claim to be the first – and some say most vital – of the great passes on the way to Lhasa and other market towns further west. On each journey I’ve taken along portions of the Tea Horse Road there are always the inevitable gems of information and insight that come to light about the history or some facet of the route.

Tenzin (right), and Ngawa take their first steps of the journey

One has to get out there to access it though, as so often the tidbits come from an elder whose town is tucked into a dark valley, or simply that old ‘someone who knows someone’ reference.

And so it begins

All of our team, except Songjè, has been over the pass multiple times, but the time of year that we are proposing to access it has caused some concerns. The grand pass hosts some of the most formidable winds in all of the eastern Himalayas and the temperatures now in late November will be daunting and vicious. Still, we have decided and planned for this departure and all are willing and anxious to actually begin. As my Hungarian grandmother once noted, “It is only once the blood starts to flow, that something really does begin to happen”. It is this moment of departure, of embarkation, that really marks a journey as real.

Our solitary horse member takes a well-deserved sip of water through the ice

We will move along a portion of long forgotten paths and strands that are but lines along mountains, waterways and through small villages that hopefully still hold some recall of one of the globe’s great unsung trade ways.

Our first steps as a team, take in and begin to ascend up a tiny dirt path, taking us out of Napa Lake valley. Our departure – as is so oftent he case – seems to act as a panacea for our collective conscience and the only thing that really interrupts the clear and quiet morning air is our horse’s incredibly intense case of flatulence.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Expedition: Shangri-La to sacred Sho’La Pass Begins

Posted on November 12, 2012 by JeffFuchs

A team of five of us begin the trek from Shangri-La to the sacred 4,815 metre Sho’La Pass tomorrow via an old trade route that wanders along the Yangtze and Mekong Rivers.

Short notice as we are racing to prepare. Our team includes the mountain machine Ngawa, Tenzin, Yanpi, myself, and singer and horseman extraordinaire Songjè…yes, that Songjè who charmed and controlled a recent journey in September.

Temperatures will be well below zero Celsius but Sho’La never looks quite as spectacular as it does during the winter’s season of mighty breaths.

North Face will wrap the outside and kora himalayan wools will wrap the inner. Upon return blog posts will follow.

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The Lion and the Descent – The Sacred Lakes in the Heights – Part lll of lll

Posted on November 12, 2012 by JeffFuchs

Aniè wakes and pours some of the lake’s sacred water onto his head to bless family, health, and our own journey

Morning comes with smoke and the sounds of “pops” on my sleeping bag. The smoke is from our still-burning fire which Ngawa kept burning all night. Aniè has slept only intermittently and Ngawa worried about our old lion so he kept the fire stoked. The tiny popping sound upon my sleeping bag is being made by miniscule pieces of ice coming out of the grey morning sky. Small, the tiny pieces of ice saunter down between the wandering branches of the rhododendron. The deities of the lake have sent them down, though I don’t know why. Do they want us to go? Do they want us to stay and keep them company?

Aniè looks gaunt and haggard with the lack of sleep, but is happy when Ngawa and I are both up…he has been waiting to drink tea and have some company. He is wrapped in layers of his coats and a double sleeping bag and his bottle of whisky is nearby as well. He tells us that the spirits kept him up all night and I wonder if they have tormented him about forgetting the route. When I ask which spirits, he simply nods at the nearby lake.

Around us the forest is still and smelling of cold earth and I don’t want to move nor do I want to leave our little quiet camp beside the lake. I feel as though we have all that we need: food, warmth, silence, and a sense of peace. I mention this feeling to Aniè and he nods, but warns that one must not overstay a welcome in such a sacred setting.

The sky above us is brooding and the little pellets of ice continue to slowly fall. Not even a breath of wind comes through the forest. Whatever this space is, it conveys a sense of complete and utter silence. It also communicates a sense that ‘it’ has all that it needs.

As we all slowly ‘wake’ (and this process is sometimes drawn out) I realize that the space around us changes how I perceive everything. No phones can ring up here and the geography forces us to interact with the elements around us as well as ourselves. There isn’t one piece of errant plastic, not one speck of garbage that doesn’t belong, and there are none of the sounds of anything man-made.

A new day, and a new series of incidents; the first of which is getting entirely lost. Aniè is content getting lost while not realizing it, while Ngawa (left) has a look of quiet desperation knowing full well we are getting more lost

Hesitating and not at all sure that we will in fact depart, eventually we come to the decision that we must leave our little enclave of lakes. We are still not sure of the route to take to continue our journey west to Aniè’s home near Wujing.

Bellies laden and warmed with butter tea, we ease our packs onto our backs and slowly depart. I make a vow to return to this spot, though I know such vows are often only wishes. As we move past a thicket of thorns a sudden “thump, thump, thump” scares all of us into crouching positions and send the heart muscle racing. It is as though an enormous engine had suddenly been turned on only a couple of meters away. A white flash streaks off through the trees and Ngawa says simply “Snow Chicken”. This large ground bird – more a pheasant than a chicken – is rarely seen as its numbers are low and it resides above 4,000 meters, and Ngawa moves over to the spot where the bird took off, collecting a few gorgeous white downy feathers.

“We’ve been lucky. We found the lakes, seen the Snow Chicken…and we’re still talking to one another”.

Aniè had a reputation in the past for not always getting along with his fellow travellers, so this last proclamation is praise indeed. His force of character isn’t something that can be denied…it can only be tolerated and enjoyed for what it is and I imagine if his sense of direction has always been this off, I could sympathize a little.

Ngawa takes over lead duties and Aniè has one of his priceless expressions of wonder as we slither through a jungle of rhododendron.

Heading in a north westerly direction, we eventually summit a high ridgeline. We are searching for a pathway that Aniè remembers as spanning the mountain and leading to alternate pathways down into the Yangtze River Valley. The sky stays cold but windless and frequently Aniè stops to collect various medicines. Roots are dug up, flowers and leaves picked and even some fungus is scraped off of enormous tree trunks. The one little note here is that all of the very significant amounts of medicines, herbs and flora that is collected is carried in a large sack by Ngawa who at one point simply was told by our elder that he would be carrying it all.

Aniè collecting medicinal roots; all of which will be carried by Ngawa

Just as when we were searching for the lakes, Aniè’s memory of the route seems to have faded and he frequently seems more intent on finding medicines that in recalling the route. For whatever reason, even as we gradually get more lost, I don’t mind as I feel that this journey is far more ‘for’ and ‘about’ Aniè and his desires and memories than it is about Ngawa or myself. We are only along to observe, take part and when we can, aid with Aniè and his wishes. Even Ngawa mentions to me that we can make our way back up here at any point and that we are still relatively young, but for Aniè this is perhaps his last journey to this place of his distant memories. There is in me though, that satisfaction of having found the lake at all, and the joy that we bothered to find the two old ancient of water.

Aniè listens carefully as Ngawa takes charge and issues orders as to which route we are taking. This was the most tame I ever saw our lion

Eventually Ngawa sites a mere hint of a pathway heading to our left (west) and down a steep slope of green into what appears to be a valley. Our route, whether it be the correct one or not, hasn’t been travelled for ages as everything is overgrown as if nature has reclaimed her own terrain. While it pleases the mind and heart that we are treading along something forgotten and primordial, the path at times appears to be leading into an ever-steepening plunge into a deep green abyss. Aniè launches into a half-serious attack on Ngawa saying just loud enough to be heard that Ngawa wants to “finish me off”. At one point Aniè growls for Ngawa to slow down and demands to discuss our route…or lack thereof.

Ngawa very nearly takes a long tumble heading down a vicious slope

Ngawa is adamant that we continue down the valley and that at this point climbing back up to the ridgeline will take hours. What ensues is our first real disagreement, though even it is kept relatively gentle. Ngawa nods his head and listens but points out the Aniè cannot seem to recall anything of the route, to which Aniè sarcastically points out, “but I found the lakes didn’t I”? Thankfully I am kept out of the discussion.

Difficult as it is for Ngawa to argue, he simply slings his pack on, picks up the medicine bag and he presses on into a deep gulley which flows with water down a mossy embankment. We stay close together with Aniè still growling his discontentment. At one point the entire moss embankment we are gingerly descending upon gives way like a loose skin and we slide, skid, and plunge down about two meters, before the little landslide deposits us into a wet leafy recess.

Lost and loving it. Ngawa (left) stands with Aniè’s bag of medicinal herbs

Strangely, as we assess the state of our bodies and packs after our little ‘ski’ session, Aniè starts laughing and pulls out his bottle offering us all a little sip for “our happiness”. This little bit of exercise has somehow reignited his mood.

We happily take a little nip before plunging on, with Aniè’s spirits significantly enhanced. When his mood is good, Ngawa and I feel as though all is well.

There is a point in our descent when without warning and without perceptible change, I realize that the temperature has gone from cold and damp to warm and damp. The ubiquitous rhododendron forests give way to layers of thick bamboo forests that we must battle through, and the earth seems to release an altogether more pungent flavour. We are reentering the world of the ‘lowerlands’.

Aniè and Jeffers not entirely sure of where they are

 

The heat isn’t welcome as I crave the fresh wind-blown heights. Off to our left, almost magically a small modest home appears and a long bent man with a cane makes his way towards us gesturing for us to sit for an inevitable tea. We have returned to the world of others.

It will take us another 4 hours, and numerous tea sessions at different homes before we get to Aniè’s home. When his son welcomes us home, Aniè tells everyone within hearing distance that “we found the lakes but they’ve moved. I couldn’t find them in their new location”.

A distant relative of Ngawa serves up food with a wonderful kind of forceful hospitality.

There is a roar of laughter as he finds a bottle of local whisky to celebrate.

After the whisky, a foot wash for Aniè

 

 

 

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The Lost Route, Found – The Sacred Lakes in the Heights – Part ll

Posted on November 12, 2012 by JeffFuchs

When a memory of a memory inevitably isn’t quite what one expected there is a kind of exasperation, a kind of disbelief that one cannot actually recall a place, a feeling, or even a person. It is hard to acknowledge that the mind has ebbed perhaps a bit.

Momentarily, Aniè would recall the route only to lead us slightly astray…that would change

Aniè stands with his homemade pack in the face of winds which blast into his eyes which tear under the cold wind’s force but he does not move. Ngawa and I wait beside him as he scans the horizons around him looking for something familiar, something to stimulate his memory into an affirmative. It doesn’t come. Ngawa is gentle but firm with our elder statesman urging him to move and reminding him that as the skies darken and time passes we are losing precious momentum. Aniè though, is fixated and seemingly unable to move. I wonder at what goes on in his mind and how that feeling of knowing you should remember but cannot affects him.

Ngawa heads up through thick foliage…not really lost, but not really unlost either

Aniè tells us of how so much has changed in the decades and that the landscapes before him simply don’t register. Trees have grown, the season’s colors and tones have created a different geography to that which he remembers…and of course what he doesn’t mention (and neither do we) is that his memory over time has perhaps faded slightly.

Ngawa gently takes charge and moves out to lead instinctively as the winds pick up for another inevitable onslaught. His short powerful form cuts northwest. We are bushwhacking through waist deep scrub brush and rhododendron that rip at every loose end and are keen to get out of their grips. We’ve spent a good portion of the day on trails that ‘seem’ right but don’t necessarily ‘feel’ right and Ngawa is carefully adamant that we must continue plunging northwest.

Ngawa snapped this shot of yours truly as we push ourselves and our packs through the rough forests. At times the greatest challenge besides finding the route was getting my large pack through the layers of branches and snags. At one point I am literally hanging, kept up by my pack which had snagged on a huge branch.

Our day comes to a close in a small cup of a valley as the temperatures plunge to -12 degrees Celsius the moment the orb of a sun disappears. We’ve chosen a summer wooden shed for our sleeping quarters and not for the first time its ability to fend off the cold will prove helpful. Clearing out the fire pit Aniè shakes his head and immediately searches his pack for the comfort of his bottle of Mao Liang white whisky.

Ngawa and I take turns making the ten minute walk to a glacial stream which lies nearby burbling under a layer of ice. Water and fuel are the two ‘musts’ for any camp, and the spring waters here make their way from inside the earth and flow like clean white torrents. Ngawa and I carry small shards of resin-heavy pieces of pine so that lighting a fire – even with rain or snow pelting down – is possible.

Often Aniè would convince us that his body hadn’t aged at all, as he powered his seventy-year-old body onwards without any signs of tiring.

Mountains have this wonderful but rather ominous ability to become silent at night, as the winds die down to let it in a kind of deep quiet cold that penetrates every corner and space. The moment the sun disappears behind the distant mountains, it is as though another world with its moods has taken charge.

Our dinner is identical to our lunch and breakfast: pieces of pork laid upon the fire bare, butter tea, and biscuits…and of course the necessary little sip (in Aniè’s case multiple long slurps) of whisky. As always, I have a stash of green Puerh, and tuck into multiple bowls of tea to satisfy both a need and a desire.

No day was complete without one or two tea breaks and the moment we set up camp, Ngawa would get out the butter, bowls and begin the ritual of making our ‘bo jia’ (Tibetan/butter tea).

Journeys through nature’s grand elements – and particularly those by foot – are as much about the relationships and the decision making process as they are about physical efforts and fortitude. Our entire dinner within the little wooden enclave is taken up with what tomorrow’s plan will be. Ngawa’s judgment and strength of character is slowly taking hold on our journey and it is his calm but forceful suggestion of the following day’s direction that eventually is agreed upon. Though Ngawa has never been to these elusive Sacred Lakes, he knows the area and more importantly isn’t affected by memories. His instincts are what drive him and his instincts are precisely why he is on this journey. Ngawa, I’ve often thought, has retained a kind of primal element to living. He isn’t swayed too much by so-called logic but nor does he ignore it when it ‘feels’ right. He doesn’t suffer that potentially fatal flaw in the mountains of ‘over-thinking’ or doubting. He simply ‘does’. He goes with his gut feelings on most things in life and in my experiences with him, he’s almost always correct. Ngawa still feels the land and its pains and he still pays attention to its every breath.

Ngawa surveys the Yangtze River valley from our vantage point above 4,000 metres. The valley heads northwest.

A humming fire rings in an early sleep, our sleeping bags tucked close to the flames and in Aniè’s case this means almost ‘in’ the fire pit. He lights his pipe as he lies back and his lean face stretches into a lion-like yawn as he hums something from long ago to us and the dark welcomes us down into its depths.

Next morning’s frost has left our entire mountain world under a sheen of ice. Ngawa hasn’t slept well and is puffy but that doesn’t stop him from running around with his rampant energy. He speaks little this morning but he is intent that on this day we’ll start early and get within striking distance of the lakes, if not to them.

Aniè gets up slowly, growling about how his bones are not used to the cold. He wonders aloud why this route that used to connect Xiao Zhongdian and the high grassland valleys to that of the deep warm Yangtze River towns of Wujing County had been forgotten. Xiao Zhongdian, known to the Tibetans as Yong’no, and its inhabitants that we had spoken to, said that the elders had spoken of precious lakes but that no one now had any use for nor knowledge of the routes.

Aniè and a few others when they were younger had come not only to pray for rains but they had also come to source the high altitude plants and herbs that rest up in the heights. Medicines from the area were (and still are) precious commodities that are trusted. Aniè though had most often come up from Wujing, in the opposite direction to that which we now follow.

At one point, Aniè recalls the route and here gives one of his wolfish smiles to Ngawa and I, leaving us no doubt as to who is in charge.

Ngawa leads along a flat corridor that ascends ever-higher and our day blazes with the dual prongs of relentless wind and heavy sun. As always the struggles come when we must literally cut our way through the dense underbrush while scaling invisible moss-covered rocks and stones. Hours lead us to a dead-end valley where we are literally encased in three sides that stretch straight up around us. To retreat means a three hour trip and a huge loss of time. I scale a ridgeline to get a view of our surroundings, or what there is to see. We have been gifted one little piece of precious information by locals, which Aniè confirms from his recall of the route. We’ve been told about a single peak of stone that we must find and head towards; that the lakes we seek lie in dark seclusion beyond and below this spire of stone. I find it hovering a distance to the west…a long distance but it is there.

Upon returning I find our old lion sipping some of his whisky with a desolate smile. He asks, “so what have you seen up there”? He is more content to be led now than at the beginning and it is a bit sad to see him losing faith in his memories, though I suspect that such a man never really loses his strength.

A lake, but not one of the lakes seen from a ridgeline.

I mention this peak being visible in the distance and slowly a fire glows in his ancient eyes. He looks off into the forest before us exactly where the peak lies, but invisible to us now. Slowly a finger raises and points to the distant peak.

“Is it that way”? he asks knowingly, without taking his eyes off the invisible spot.

“Yes”, I tell him.

Slowly a long smile spreads across his face and he quickly puts the cap onto the bottle of whisky. His entire countenance has reassumed the figure of command and slinging his bag onto his shoulders he issues us the command “dro” (“go” in Tibetan).

“I remember the route. It is through this forest along a valley”, Aniè tells us. The “forest” he speaks of is a vast green world that is thick with overgrown trees and mosses, and we must ascend up an almost vertical pathway. Ngawa looks at me with a smile and in that expression secures in me that faith that he trusts that Aniè does in fact finally remember.

At one point after slogging through and over thick underbrush, the ever-present rhododendron, and slick damp stones which lie in wait for us, we empty out onto a high ridgeline which oversees a whole world in front of us. Sightlines stretch in every direction, rendering all of us still with its magnificence. Not even Aniè’s penchant for a sip of firewater can interrupt the stunning vistas.

Ngawa takes a pause along a ledge while following Aniè towards the lakes

Ngawa’s tough face softens as he drops his pack for the first time in hours to savour this view from above.

“My home is around that bend”, he tells me, pointing far off into a western valley along the Yangtze which snakes its muscular flow below us.

Moments later, Aniè’s relentless energy is urging us onwards as the lakes – joined by his almost manic hand-pointing – are just below us. Aniè is surging ahead of us, stalking downwards and then, like many final rewards, the first of the two lakes, Tso Ka (White Lake) simply is there. No drama, no brilliance, nothing overstated as we arrive. The lake itself is smaller and less grand than my mind had imagined it, but it carries something in its stillness, something that transcends words. Still, flat, water shimmers in the fading light between the thick branches and the breath is almost rendered still by the site. Aniè flings his bag to the ground crouches close to the edge and lights his pipe like an animal sniffing the ground. He turns to us and smiles with that great handsome head of his as if a small victory has been scored.

At long last the silent sheen of one of the sacred lakes is before us. Have covered by ice White Lake was pristine and understated…and utterly quiet.

An hour later we sit beside the sister lake, Tso Nga (Black Lake) unpacking our gear which smells of smoke. It is about a 10 minute crash through the forest from its sibling. Ngawa and I collect dead wood for our fire, which is always our first priority. Aniè rinses his face and hair in the sacred lake, not heeding Ngawa’s warning not to treat the sacred lake in such a way. Ngawa collects water from another nearby lake – which isn’t one I’ve heard of up until now – Tso Ma (Red Lake), which apparently isn’t sacred.

And then the equally still Black Lake is found nearby.

When I ask Aniè what designates a lake as being sacred he looks at me and gives me a simple answer which is typical of him: “It has been sacred for as long as anyone knows, and so it remains sacred, but now people have forgotten it.”

Up close Black Lake reveals nothing but an ultra clarity

The lake rests just off to the north of us very still and dark and our little camp rests under a low canopy of rhododendron. I keep silent, but I wonder if our coming here will inspire the deities to send down snow or rain.

Our camp on the banks of Black Lake was a place of tranquility, and of dreams

In the ancient world of spirits, lakes were sacred places and to enter them or even to speak too loudly within their reach would bring calamity, rain, or thunderstorms. Aniè says little and keeps looking at the forest around us and soon, only smells and sounds of the forest are present.

Aniè at camp at fireside begins his nightly recital of legends both real and slightly unreal.

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Memory of a Memory – The Sacred Lakes in the Heights Part l

Posted on November 12, 2012 by JeffFuchs

*This article will appear in Mandarin on North Face’s Quyeba.com adventure website in the coming week as part of our collaboration

A seventy-year-old medicine man, two remote sacred lakes, and a journey

Legends, like the people who carry the memory of them, sometime need revisiting. The legend of the twin sister lakes of Tso Ka Tso Na (White Lake, Black Lake) came from a man who was (and still is) a legend in his own right. Known affectionately as Aniè (uncle) to those both in his Tibetan community near Wujing Township in northwestern Yunnan and beyond, at 70 years old still carries the weight of someone who has both lived and breathed in life with full and fearless breaths.

The face, the being and force that is Aniè

He is riveting in the way that truly authentic people are and his memories are of a time when people took time to communicate with eachother face to face. The first time the almost lyrical Tso Ka Tso Na entered into my ears, I was sitting with Aniè speaking about the ancient trade routes that still trace through the mountains heading to all points of the compass. Aniè has the gaunt good looks of an ageing rock star, and much like the mountains around us, there is little about him beyond the lean basics. Yunnan’s mountains, passes and deep hidden valleys are rife with legends of the Tea Horse Road, and other meandering trade paths that sourced and accessed some of the most remote regions. In fact there seemed no place that wasn’t accessible by way of paths.

Aniè, Ngawa, and Jeffers

In his younger days – and he proudly explains that those days are not so far in the past – Anè would climb into the mountains to source precious high mountain medicines. Using these paths which fearlessly access every cliff and nook in the great heights, he would also reach the sacred lakes which lie “over the great ridges of stone”. Generations of his elders would climb paths to the lakes that lie over two thousand meters higher than their town to ask the lakes and the deities within for help. Aniè then tells me a tale that would stay in my own mind long after our first discussion.

Bullet-proof and a throw-back to the old days of travel by foot, the irresistibly tough Ngawa

He speaks of an ancient tradition that is barely recalled by any but the most elderly; it is a tradition of ascending to two sacred high mountain lakes that are tucked away deep in forests to pray for rain. If the deities regarded the visitors as having a good soul and honest intentions (the legend goes), the deities would open the skies and gift the communities with much needed rain for the suffering crops. The lakes were not easily found, nor were they for the faint of heart. The desolate location of the lakes and this kind of tribute to nature’s powers go beyond any Buddhism or faith of the ‘modern world’; the worship of stone, wood, and water deities go back to a time when animism and nature worship ruled the land. As Aniè tells the story of the lakes and the isolated and long abandoned route to access them, his lined and sun-ravaged face looks to some distant spot in his mind and tells me in a voice that is almost a whisper how much he would give to travel there once again. His wanderlust stirred in me a call to revisit a time and a place of sacred lakes.

Almost a year later that little wish of Aniè’s to travel to the lakes (which had become an almost obsessive wish of mine) is beginning in the present tense. It is early November and winter is tightening its grip on Shangri-La in northwestern Yunnan, where my little loft cracks under the assault of the Himalayan winds.

Before any lakes can be taken in, a world of stone must be passed through

Winds which originate in the west – where the Himalayas lie – are always to be feared, say locals. Much as I have looked forward to the trek itself, there is a kind of reverent expectation of travelling with Aniè and his memories. Typical of the local custom it is difficult to nail down a firm departure date and time. Without warning one day I am called and ‘told’ by Aniè that we will depart “the day after tomorrow”…which is today.

Hitting a high altitude plateau, our route changes from stone, to forests, to a grand expanse of emptiness

A team of three of us – Aniè, myself, and a local iron-man of the mountains, Ngawa, – is bent under the weight of our respective packs as we trudge west from Xiao Zhongdian, south of Shangri-La straight into westerly winds. It is an area which still requires the humble foot to access as the region we are interested in have no routes which any vehicle could ever access.

The crucial time of day for all travellers in these parts, the butter tea break…here within the confines of a summer yak herder’s home.

High above, within the mountains’ grand spaces our route will take us due west…and straight up. Winter mornings here at close to four thousand meters have the ability to carry cold into the bones like few other places. The only option for dealing with it is to move and keep moving. Above us, the brutally blue winter morning sky brings sun but no warmth, showering us in bleak light. The cold singes up into the sinuses with its sharp teeth. Beneath us the earth is frozen solid, and the warm tones of the earth deceive. Snow hasn’t arrived but the cold hits us in the teeth.

Stunning, but not one of our two sacred lakes

Ngawa is dressed as he is almost every day. Leather boots, a woolen suit coat, five layers of vests, shirts, etc, and topped off with a woolen hat above his handsome features. Built wiry and tough, he and I have travelled many routes together and there are few more necessary assets to have in the mountains’ corridors. He is someone who can create a fire out of nothing, forage for food in the most remote location, and is a quietly fearless titan who I suspect could hunt down beasts if we went hungry.

Aniè and Ngawa ascend into a high altitude forest of giant pine

Beside him the loping, and still strong Aniè, who seems to stalk rather than walk upright. He is like an ageing lion who has been given fresh legs, and he insists on leading. Lean, with huge callused hands he has the body of a hunter and he needs no introduction to the rigors of the mountains. I notice too, that he holds some vanity left in him, which I love. He often preens his hair and tugs his long errant beard as if wanting to be presentable for the mountains and his memories.

Aniè takes a break with his variation of a mountain pack….using a simple but brilliant quick release knot system his rice sack was pulled on and off in just seconds

Our packs carry only the absolute necessities as we wish to travel light and fast, though we have no definitive timetable nor schedule. We will take as long as we need to, to find the lakes. There is another reason we carry our own packs: we cannot find any horsemen who will risk the health of their mules at this time of year. With the prospect of ice, leaden temperatures, and little or no grazing any beast of burden would not have a happy journey. Apart from Aniè we haven’t encountered anyone who even remembers the ancient lakes and when they do, they’ve only heard tales of the “lakes above”. We are entirely on our own with only a rough idea of how long we’ll be in the mountains. Elders have spoken of the lakes being “up in the heights” making them seem as though they are otherworldly. Even the yak herds have long since descended down out of the mountains; we be alone with mountains…and Aniè’s memories. Our dietary supplements can be summed up as pork fat, tsampa (barley powder), butter (for the crucial butter tea), bricks of Puerh tea, biscuits, and a few sweets…and to finish it all off, a rather daunting amount of whisky for Aniè, who explains with a wicked smile that he needs it “to stay warm”.

Shacks like these in the high altitudes often provide a respite from the relentless winds

Aniè’s pack isn’t a conventional pack at all but rather an old rice sack that is tied with an old style knot and slung over his shoulders. Everything about him is old style but there is an elegance too, as if from another time. A little over four hours into our walk as the skies become grey and threatening as we push further into the mountains and giant pine trees that make soft sounds in the wind. Eventually the skies clear and more blue pours out of the sky and we realize very slowly, that we are entirely lost.

Aniè listens as Ngawa explains where he thinks our hidden lakes might be

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