Druk Path Trek

The Druk Path trail begins on a long dirt road behind the Paro Dzong. If one did not know what to look for, the road would be indistinguishable from any other rough road winding its way up into the higher mountains that surround the Paro valley. From the beginning, our head trekking guide, Sangay, instructs us to hike at our own pace. The higher we get, he explains, the more easily we will quickly become cold, too quickly if we try to wait for the slower-paced members of the group. In order to facilitate our different hiking capacities, Sangay assigns one of his trekking staff to accompany each group. In theory, there will be three groups—the “fast” group, the “medium” group, and the “slow” group. Since there are only nine of us—myself, Mike and Willa, Leeli and Rinpoche, Judy, Christina, Gina and Bill, we wonder how this will work out. Wangyal, a sweet young man with a long lock of dark hair falling into his eyes is assigned to the group I find myself in—the “fast” group. This is not to say that I am a particularly fast hiker, although I may be, but I know that having lived in Bhutan for nearly a year, I am well-acclimatized and increases in altitude are less-troublesome for me now than they have ever been. That is one very clear benefit to living at high altitude—once one’s blood cells have adjusted to the change, differences in altitude of a few thousand feet aren’t as taxing. Nevertheless, I remind myself, high altitude sickness is notoriously unpredictable and can affect even the most seasoned high-altitude climbers with no warning.  As a result, I feel grateful again to Francine, another member of the tour group, who has given me her high altitude medications—not only for my own benefit, in fact, not even particularly for me at all, but for the rest of the trekkers, whose acclimatization has been occurring only over the past ten days. This is with the exception of Khari Rinpoche and Leeli—Rinpoche because he comes from the Solo Khumbu area of Nepal near Mt. Everest and Leeli because she has just recently spent a month trekking in Nepal before joining our tour here in Bhutan.

Druk Path Trek

As the dirt road winds gently upward, a cool breeze sails high white clouds overhead and spring flowers nod their colorful faces at us from green hedges. The “fast” group consists of myself, Mike, Willa, and for the time being, Rinpoche. We bombard Rinpoche with questions about his nunnery in Nepal and about his previous lives. In alternating Tibetan and English, Rinpoche explains that he is the third in his lineage, the first Khari having escaped over the mountains from Tibet during the take-over of Tibet in 1959. This first Khari Rinpoche, Lobsang Tsultrim is known today as having realized enlightenment within his lifetime. He spent many, many years in solitary retreat high in the mountains and is reknowned as a realized gom chen (great meditator). He founded the nunnery of Khari Gaden Thanphilling after escaping into Khumbu over the Nang pa pass, which today houses over 30 nuns. The second Khari tulku died very early at age 9. And Rinpoche, now 31, lives mostly in Kathmandu, where he studies, though he returns multiple times a year to his nunnery and works ceaselessly to raise money to improve the living conditions of the nuns. As the morning wears on, Rinpoche drops back to join the group behind us and Mike and Willa and I continue upwards on the dirt road. As we pass one quaint little farmhouse after another, all widely spaced out and most with large apple orchards (the main product of the Paro valley) I am beginning to think that we will never leave inhabited areas.

Mani Wall

Finally we come to a large mani wall at the end of the road in a large green field. From here, I can see that the trail begins a sharp ascent into the dark pine forests of the higher foothills. We wait until the entire group has joined us to confer over a possible lunch spot. No one is quite ready to stop yet, so Mike, Willa, and I forge ahead, quickly making good progress up the steep pine-needled trail. It is obvious that Wangyel is slightly confused and uncertain what to do with the fact that our small group hikes much faster than he anticipated, so much so that he is being pushed to walk faster than I think he would like to. In fact, at the break point near the mani wall, Sangay informs the entire group that we are hiking much faster than most chillups and he thinks we should alter our route to provide longer days on days two and three.

As I ascend through the tall, fragrant pines, the trail snakes upward and back into the folds of the mountain. Behind, the lush Paro valley disappears from sight. By the time we eat lunch perched on the side of the trail on moss-covered logs, there is no sound besides the whisper of the wind in the green boughs overhead. Lunch this first day is simple, a sandwich, hard-boiled eggs, and any snacks we have brought. Wangyal and the other trekking guides have been carrying our packed lunches all this way. We have only to bring water, snacks, raingear, and warm clothes. Even with this small amount, my pack is quite heavy, due to my obsession with having enough water to drink! Everyone is happy to stop and eat and we all chat during lunch. Continuing, the trail is much the same, except now we are getting back into the heights where the spring blooms of the rhododendron pierce the forest shadows like glowing red embers. They are so vividly red or pink in color against the green-brown background of the forest that my gaze is drawn to them over and over.

Rhododendron

Finally, gaps of light begin to appear between the blue pines, fir and bamboo trees, indicating that we are coming closer to the top of the ridge. The walking is harder now--I can tell we’ve come up at least a couple of thousand feet. Emerging out into high alpine valleys feels like coming up out of deep water. Suddenly there is nothing but sky and distant jagged horizons of mountain peak after mountain peak shifting and changing under the shadow of the moving clouds.

At the Pass, Jele Dzong

A small dzong appears on a higher ridge, its white washed stone walls and red band of ochre paint standing out in sharp relief against the billowing cloud formations. Although we are tired, we are ahead of the rest of the group and, even more, of the ponies who are carrying the tents, our baggage, food, etc. Sitting still at this altitude with only our raingear for warmth isn’t a great idea, so our small “fast” group decides to continue hiking on to the dzong, even though Wangyal tells us that we will be camping here for the night and that the hike to the lhakang will be part of our route on the following day.

Jele Dzong

Jele Dzong, which turns out to be a small temple built by Drukpa Kunley’s brother, commands a breathtaking 360 degree view of range after range of mountains, including a view of snow clouds descending down through the ridges and ravines of Jhomolari (23,995ft), the highest peak in Bhutan. Looking back the way we have come, I can see the Paro valley far in the distance. From this vantage point, it looks quite tiny. Wind whips the vertical prayer flags erected to commemorate the dead that are arrayed alongside the temple. Iron cables secure the building to the ground, informing us that this small dzong must receive a beating from the elements. A small wooden house is under construction slightly down the ridge and a few monks appear to be engaged in its building. The courtyard of the lhakang appears to be deserted, but before we have time to wonder too much, a young monk comes running carrying a key to the main temple shrine hall. The temperature is quickly dropping as I unlace my hiking shoes and pad somewhat reluctantly across the cold stone floor into the shrine hall. Inside, the wood floors are dark and smooth with age and the passage of many feet. The hall is large, but shadowed, its main figures of Guru Rinpoche and his consorts gaze calmly down from the darkness. We perform the customary three prostrations and make a small monetary offering on the shrine. The young monk offers us holy water, which we sip, rubbing the rest of the liquid across the tops of our heads.

It is now quite cold and the wind is whipping wildly outside. We descend quickly to the campsite. The ponies are just arriving while the rest of our group lies sprawled on the ground. As the pony men, cooks, and trekking guides scurry about setting up our sleeping tents, the cooking tent, and a dining tent, we all sit in a circle on small folding chairs and watch as the sun begins its long descent. Quite quickly we are served hot tea, popcorn, biscuits, and nuts. The food is welcome as is the hot milky tea. We are all ravenous at this altitude (11,270ft). As the sun sets the sky takes on a brilliant deep blue cast; the mountain peaks emerge again from their clouds, and we can see the glow of the rising moon lighting up the ridge across from our campsite. This night is a full moon, one of the largest full moons on record due to the proximity of the earth to the moon. Across the campsite, a yak herder’s tent emits a thin trail of smoke. Out of curiosity, Mike, Willa, Rinpoche, myself, and Bill all walk across to visit.

Waiting for Tea

Inside the “tent,” which is little more than a couple of tarps stretched over bamboo poles over a dirt floor, a middle-aged woman with bare feet and arms is stirring a huge pot of boiling milk perched on a pile of wood over a burning fire. I marvel at the woman’s smile and her seeming imperviousness to the biting cold that has caused the rest of us to bundle up in every extra garment we brought. I am wearing layers of long underwear, a down vest, raingear, hat and gloves and am still freezing. Rinpoche talks with the woman and tells us that she is making chura (Tibetan cheese), long strings of cubed blocks of yak cheese. The woman seems as curious about us as we are about her. We watch as the milk curdles and she begins to pour it through a large cheesecloth into another pot. She is incredibly strong and her hands seem as impervious to heat as her feet to the cold. She tells us that her son will soon be returning with their yak herd and sure enough, we soon hear the ringing of many bells as the yaks come running into the camping area, complete with numerous baby yaks, bounding up and down next to their more sedate mothers. Around the edges of the tent can be seen everything this mother-son team own, stacks of blankets and baskets, and various objects no doubt useful, but utterly unknown to me. Before we leave, we all buy a couple of the long strings of chura. At first I am reluctant, my only experience with this kind of cheese was buying it many years ago in Tibet. I remember chewing one piece of the hard tasteless cheese for hours without making any progress on softening it or eliciting any flavor from it at all. But this chura is much different, far softer and more flavorful--it tastes marvelous at this altitude.

Dinner finds us gathered around a table inside the dining tent. A meal of numerous dishes—rice, green salad, veggie curries, meat, and so on—covers the table. I can’t believe we are eating so much food and such good food. Everyone is starving and we wolf down large quantities only to find a desert of fresh fruit and hot pudding awaiting us afterwards. I can’t help comparing the luxury of our situation with stories of colonial safaris where Englishmen and women were sipping hot tea from china in the middle of the African deserts. By the time we gather around the blazing campfire, I am ready for bed. But the moon is just rising above the peaks of the mountains and the world is bathed in brilliant silver light. We watch as the huge, gleaming orb of the moon climbs higher into the ink-dark sky. The world seems very far away, and us here, our breath streaming into the moonlight, breathing in the silence and the space, like odd travelers to an unknown world.

Waiting for the Moon

Sleep is fitful. For one thing, I am freezing. My borrowed down bag, which claims to be rated to 30 degrees below zero, can be no such thing. As the night goes on, I gradually put back on every item of clothing I brought. I clutch the hot water bottle the staff gave me to my chest and try to relax. Every time I think I just might fall asleep, I have to get up, unzip the tent, and duck behind a shadowed bush to pee. By the time morning comes, I think that I must have risen at least nine times. I vow not to drink nearly so much hot water the next night. At about 5am, on my ninth trip to the bushes, the sun is rising and the world glitters with frost. The breath of the yaks and ponies steams in the sunlight that quickly warms me. Only Leeli is up and we whisper together in the early morning before the noises of the cooks and horsemen begins to awaken the rest of the group.

Early Morning Frost

After a breakfast of tsampa (Tibetan barley flour soup), eggs, toast, and tea, we are on the path early. This second day is said to be one of the longest and we want to get an early start. The day is glorious, which is a relief, since we’ve been hearing unseasonable tales of hail, snow, and rain. Hiking back up past the Jele Dzong, even mountains that were shrouded in cloud the day before are now vividly present, their jagged slopes breaking through the clear spring dawn like razors. Mike, Willa, and I reach the Dzong first and lie about on the green ridge until the rest of the group appears, at which point, we continue on, disappearing into the forest that is again vivid with blossoms of purple, yellow, and the brilliant red of the rhododendrons. I find myself frustrated hiking with Wangyal, whose cell phone has regained coverage. He has it on speakerphone and is engaged in a long, loud discussion with his girlfriend. I keep gesturing at him to end his call, but he either doesn’t understand me or doesn’t want to. But I feel irritated by having to listen to his chatter in such a quiet and beautiful place. I only want to walk in silence and hear the sounds of the woods, the wind, the mountains. Finally, in a fit of pique, I charge past him on the trail and practically run a long distance down to where the trail begins a steep ascent back up to the ridgeline. At 12,000 feet, hiking so quickly is intense, beyond my normal pace, and I am sweating and breathing in deep gulps as I surge up the trail, knowing that my uphill pace will leave Wangyal far behind. And I do. Finally his voice vanishes and there is only me, my breath, the wind sighing through the trees, the clouds sliding by overhead. It would be peaceful but for the sense that I must keep on going if I want to stay ahead of my guide. Willa and Mike are somewhere behind me with Wangyal, and I feel a bit silly that I have so over-reacted to the phone call. But, since I have gone so far, I just keep going until the trail final emerges into a high meadow at about 13,000 feet.

Day Two

Here, I wait until Willa and Mike arrive and the three of us lean back against our packs in the warm sunlight and watch the distant peaks around us. We are all drowsy with exertion and sun when Wangyal arrives. We ask him for our lunch, but he indicates that we will need to await the rest of the group before eating, as lunch this day will be a “hot” meal. I can’t tell if eating a “hot” meal for lunch is a particularly Bhutanese custom or if this is just an extra perk for westerners who come on treks. But lunches in Bhutan are almost always the usual hot rice, curries, peppers, etc. Personally, I prefer to just snack, especially when hiking, and the thought of a huge hot meal isn’t very appealing, but I hold my tongue and my patience this time. 

Holy Goats

Sure enough, lunch is an actual hot meal, carried by our guides in insulated containers. It’s hard to believe we can have such a meal in the middle of a day of hiking in the wilderness at 13,000 feet! After lunch we are informed that we will stay in the further of two campsites along the trail since we are all hiking at such a good pace. Generally, the Druk Path trail takes about six days, but we are doing it in four. Before this sounds impressive, we learn that Bhutanese soldiers often do the entire trek in one day as part of their training program. So, even though we are all feeling very proud of our hiking skills, learning that the whole thing can be done in one day, brings a bit of reality to the situation. It reminds me of circumambulating Mt. Kailash (or Tise as its known in Tibet). When I circumambulated Mt. Kailash in 1998 in November with Walker Blaine, there was no one there expect us, the snow, and our two guides, who were always ahead of us carrying our packs, but wearing nothing but flip-flops. On the second day, before crossing the highest pass at 18,000 feet, we were overtaken by a group of Tibetans, including an old man walking with a cane. Given the altitude, we were walking about three or four feet before having to stop and gasp for breath. The Tibetans, carrying nothing but bags of tsampa and their bowls, surged past us up the pass. We learned that they had begun the route at about 4am that morning and would finish that evening. For us, the entire route took three full days of hiking, including areas where we were breaking through the snow and sinking up to our knees in places! The Druk Path seems a bit like that.

Going Up

Leaving the lunch spot it is clear that the weather is changing. The limpid blue sky of the morning has given way to increasing clouds and the temperature is dropping. Not wanting to be caught on the trail in the rain, Willa, Mike, Bill and I hike quickly along the ridge until it drops back down into the forest. Here, it is clear that caravans of ponies have been traveling, and we can see that there has been a lot of precipitation of various kinds. The trail begins to slope downwards more and more steeply and besides the psychological disappointment of losing the altitude we worked so hard to gain, there is the increasing difficulty of the trail, which degenerates into ridges of thick, oozing mud, and spaced at regular intervals. Trying to hop from muddy ridge to ridge as the trail plunges downward is more than challenging and I find myself sliding and slipping, struggling to maintain my balance, sometimes in vain as I crash onto the ground in the mud. The trail goes down and down. At one point, a white horse appears above us on the steep slope, its coat gleaming pearl-like in the increasing gloom. At another point, a huge white yak appears in front of us and as we stand gaping at its long, silvery coat and size, it charges straight towards us, causing us to leap off the trail and yell back to Bill to step off too before the yak reaches him. There is a feeling of descending into a fairy world of hanging moss, shadows, mythical animals, and unknown adventures. If the trail wasn’t so challenging, it would be a rather magical descent. Rain begins, slowly, but increases quickly. I’m worried that I’ll be soaked, since I’ve neglected to bring my rain pants today. The precipitation hastens our pace and at about 5pm, Bill, Willa and I cross over a roaring mountain brook into a small meadow nestled in a remote valley between two high ridges, where Mike is waiting. Although I had hoped we’d be camping again up high, as the rain increases in volume, I feel grateful that we are stopping. The tents are mostly set up, which is good, as we are freezing. Changing into everything I own, I pray that the sodden ground doesn’t seep through the bottom of my tent. I splash my way over to the dining tent, which is at least sheltered, but it’s muddy and very wet.

As we await the rest of the group, the rain changes suddenly to snow that falls from the sky in thick, white sheets, so heavy with moisture that the ground is immediately covered in white. By the time the rest of the group arrives, everyone is exhausted and freezing. For a while we huddle in our tents. Gradually, as darkness falls, the sound of the heavy snow falling begins to fade. By the time we are called to dinner, the snow has stopped. The ground is sodden under three inches or so of heavy wet snow, and mist curls in the branches of the dark trees that surround our campsite. Somehow, in spite of the wet and snow, the horsemen have started a campfire with huge, steaming logs arranged in a teepee shape. As we huddle next to the smoking wood the fire begins to gain strength and before long I am even able to dry my soaking feet by extending my legs toward the blazing heat. Sangay informs us that if the snow continues this night, we will have to abort the trek, as the ponies will not be able to make the next day’s hike over the high, stone passes we must pass through on our way to the final campground above Phajoding Monastery. In spite of exhaustion, we are all worried. It would be a shame to abort the hike, especially since the next day’s journey takes us far back up into a region of sacred lakes, high above the tree line. Curled in my sleeping back at night, I am grateful that I don’t have to pee nearly so much, but still I barely sleep, mostly due to the intense cold that makes any movement complicated as I attempt to sustain any heat my body has produced.

Waiting for the Sun

The vague gray light of dawn awakens me and I push open the snow and frost-crusted tent flaps to reveal a world of frozen ice and snow, dark pines, and deep silence. The sun is slowly inching its way down the side of the ridge we descended the day before and I make my way to edge of the meadow to where the first rays will reach. No one seems to be awake. The ponies stand silently. They too await the warmth of the sun. Bit by bit the sun descends, striking color into the shadowed mountain slope, the dark trees, the icicles hanging like crystal teeth from the branches. When the sun finally touches me, I feel instantly warmer. The snow-covered meadow glimmers and light fills the small valley. It’s a glorious day. 

Ice Tree at Dawn

No snow fell again during the night and so we are good to go. At breakfast, Sangay tells us that as we pass through the higher peaks today, we must avoid coming too near to any of the lakes, which are considered sacred to Bhutanese people. Leaving garbage or washing one’s feet in the water is known to anger the deities of the waters, bringing down bad weather and bad luck on whatever hapless person has committed these acts. A story of the Fourth King of Bhutan says that only he can go onto the lakes, as one time when he was on a small boat in the middle of one of these high lakes, the waters began to churn and the clouds came in very suddenly. The King lifted his pistol and shot a single shot down into the water. Immediately the waters calmed and the weather cleared. Since this day, these lakes are said to be sacred to the Fourth King, who is thought to have certain kinds of siddhis (magical powers). I love this. And as well, I love that we will be traveling through these sacred areas.

13,000ft

The hike up out of our sleeping valley is practically vertical. Mike, Willa, and I hike alone as Wangyal turns back to tell the rest of the group that he has found the three ponies who were thought to have run off during the night. The trail is snow-covered and muddy, but so steep that it is obvious that ponies don’t come this way. Mike disappears ahead of Willa and me as we chat and climb. Eventually we come back out on the ridge, the thick forest slipping back behind us as high rhododendron and dark, slate rock take their place. A small lake is gray and still beneath the higher gray and white slopes of the mountain peaks. The view is astounding.

Again I am reminded that Bhutan is only a country of mountains. There are no flat areas, unless you count the airport runway! Now the trail is less steep although we are still climbing. Stopping for even a few moments allows the high, cold wind to penetrate to the bone, so we keep going, rising and falling with the rocky trail. As the time passes we come to a small pass festooned with prayer flags. For a few moments, the sun emerges and we perch on the edge of the cliff, warm in the sun, looking out to the north to Jhomolari, whose highest peaks are obscured by clouds. Small cliff birds swoop and dive on the wind around us. Other than the birds, there is no movement save the fluttering of the prayer flags and the silent overhead sailing of the clouds.

Wangyal on the Pass

When the sun disappears, we continue down the other side of the pass a short distance to the ruins of a small stone shelter above another small lake. Here, we have to wait for the rest of the group. Putting on everything I have carried, I take a short walk around the ridge to a small cave overlooking the lake. Sitting down, I let my mind and body settle into my surroundings, into the brownish-green earth, the jumbled piles of gray slate and rock that rise up around me, the steep cliff edges that drop off in front down to the lake. As I remain motionless, the world seems to come alive around me. The surface of the lake ruffles and fans in various directions, the movement turning its color from silver to black to gray and even to blue when the sun slides out from behind the shifting clouds for moments at a time. Watching, the lake seems almost alive, as if some unknown hand was skimming its pearly surface, stirring its depths. My body feels heavy, solid, an anchor grounding me on this earth, environment and internal thoughts merge and dissolve and I am reminded of lines from Trungpa Rinpoche’s Sadhana of Mahamudra, a terma text discovered at Taktsang in Paro that say:

Good and bad, happy and sad

All thoughts vanish into emptiness like

The imprint of a bird in the sky.

Time passes, but I am unaware of it until I hear a shout and in moving, discover that my body is stiff and cold. As I make my way back to the stone shelter, I note that those few moments alone in the cave above the lake are the first moments of stillness and peace I have had since the trip began. So much doing, so much moving, but not nearly enough just being, especially in these places that know nothing else, whose environments are impenetrable if we simply rush through them on our way to somewhere else.

Sacred Lake

When everyone arrives, we eat a hurried lunch. Snow flurries are swirling around us and the temperature is dropping again as Mike, Willa, and I quickly gather our packs to continue. Since we’ve been waiting for such a long time, we are quite cold. From here the trail again rises over rocky ridges and couple of passes. It is liking walking through a moonscape—just rocks, moss, water, snow, and a few low bushes. In places, the ridge flattens out into long sloping plateaus upon which small lakes reflect the white sky like silver mirrors. As the afternoon comes to an end, we arrive at the final pass. Huge white clouds billow up over the blue sky creating a surreal vantage point as we approach the saddle. It is like walking up to the edge of the world.

Final Pass

A rock cairn marks the point where the trail drops down into the Thimphu valley and we can see the city of Thimphu far, far below, shining like a white city in the sunlight. Looking closer down over the ridge, the monastery complex of Phajoding clings to the side of the mountain. We can even see the tiny dots of our tents being set up nearby the monastery by the trekking staff in anticipation of our arrival. For a long time we sit on the ridge and watch the clouds and shadows shifting over the valley far below.

Thimphu Valley

Finally, we begin the steep descent. Arriving at the campsite we collapse. As time goes by and the rest of the group does not arrive, we begin to worry. Is everyone okay? I know that, if for me, being in excellent cardiovascular shape, this hike was exhausting, how has it been for everyone else? Mike and Willa are fine, like me, they are tired, but physically fine. After a couple of hours, we hear shouts from the ridge above. Our group has reached the final pass. Eventually they arrive and we scurry around to make sure that everyone has tea immediately and something to eat. Everyone is fine, though exhausted and we are all grateful to have made the journey so well. In general, our guides are astounded by our group. They keep mentioning how fast we are in comparison with other treks. After everyone has had a bit of rest, we gather for our final dinner, which is a true feast of delicious food. The kitchen staff has outdone itself. In general we are all amazed and deeply grateful to the entire trekking staff. They have taken amazing care of us, from being our companions on the path, to lighting fires in the worst possible conditions, to bringing us bed tea every morning in our cold tents. I think that any one of us would do this again with such a fantastic staff. Gathering around the fire after dinner, we sing songs and tell stories. The trekking staff joins us and we even get one of horsemen to sing us a song. His clear voice wavers in the moonlight, the song is wistful and somewhat sad. I reflect that tomorrow we will return to the world of noise and people, cars and technology. I think we are all a bit sad to leave these heady heights, the silences, the wind. Next time, I hope to take more time, have space for just sitting and being, not rushing on to the next campsite, but resting in these places a bit more.

Falling asleep it is again freezing cold, but I sleep somewhat better, anticipating the next day’s descent to Thimphu. Our Druk Path trek is over, but I am determined to spend a lot more time in these high mountains!

High Peak