Pumola

Jennifer doesn’t seem to mind that we arrive late to pick her up at her residence halfway up the hill to Motitang. Even though the day dawned crystal clear, getting everything together for the daylong hike to Pumola took longer than expected. And since I seem to be caught in a period of writer’s block concerning progress on my dissertation, I will try to describe our hike in the hopes that it might generate some inspiration to continue my “real” work. After Jennifer, a landscape architect from California who is living in Bhutan and responsible for the enormous, daunting, and quite exciting project of designing the grounds of the new courthouse buildings, joins us, we make our way up the tortuously twisting roads of upper Motitang. Motitang is the “rich” suburb above Thimphu town. It’s a beautiful part of the Thimphu valley, but somewhat spoiled now by the ubiquitous construction taking place everywhere as more and more newly wealthy Bhutanese seek to mark out a home spot. But once we pass by the takin reserve (the area of land set aside for the national animal of Bhutan to graze in peace), we encounter nothing and no one until we reach the trailhead for Phajoding Monastery. This is also our launching spot, and, if not for the garbage strewn about, it would be a lovely spot next to a burbling mountain stream at the base of a torrey gate through which one of the queen’s palaces cannot quite be glimpsed.

I am very much looking forward to hiking. The weather this October, in contrast to last year, has been utterly spectacular—the kind of weather that Bhutan is famous for, with crystal clear, deep blue skies, warm sun, translucent light, and cool breezes. It’s ideal hiking weather. Last year, perhaps due to the monsoon extending longer than usual, perhaps due to the area of Bhutan in which we were living, was wet, gray, cold, and foggy. Every day I hoped for clearing skies, and every day I felt disappointed. But now, with this weather, there is no excuse not to explore as much of these amazing mountains as possible. Today, we are hiking up to a saddle/pass known as Pumola. The elevation gain will be about 4000 feet and the hike itself about 4 miles. This pass is the lowest along the range of mountains that towers over the Thimphu valley and on the sides of which the old monastery of Phajoding sprawls in a cluster of various temple buildings. This monastery takes its name from the Tibetan Buddhist saint, Phajo Drigum Shigpo, who came to Bhutan and meditated here in the 13^th century. Phajo belonged to the same school of Tibetan Buddhism that my Buddhist saint, Drukpa Kunley, did—the Drukpa Kagyu. The founder of this sect, Tsangpa Gyare Yeshe Dorje had prophesied that Phajo would convert many areas of what was then known as lho mon (or “southern Mon”) to Buddhism. Phajo founded the first Drukpa monasteries in Bhutan, Phajoding and Tango.

The trail begins along the same trail that leads to Phajoding, but thankfully, after about a quarter of a mile, the trail branches off to the left, angling us downhill along a far-less well-traveled path where it seems likely that we will meet fewer hikers, trekkers, monks, or pony men. After descending down to the same river we parked by lower down, the trail ascend steeply for some time. With the morning light slanting down through the forest of pine, deciduous trees, rhododendron, and other unknown species of conifers, the forest seems an enchanted place. The wind is cool and smoothing as we begin to sweat from the effort of hiking steadily uphill. Here and there I see branches, or even entire trees whose leaves have either completely changed to crimson, gold, or orange, or those in the midst of the process. This surprises me, since in Taktse, due perhaps to the lower elevation, or simply due to the kind of foliage that grows in that more verdant area; I saw little or no change in the color of the leaves. Over time, many of them simply went brown and fell off, but the beauty that autumn can affect had no role there. Not so here in the Thimphu valley areas. 

The variety of trees is astounding. The dark forests of oak, birch, maple, magnolia and laurel give way as we climb higher and higher to spruce, yew, weeping cypress, and finally Himalayan fir in the highest elevations. Particularly spectacular this time of year are the weeping larch trees, whose draping branches hang down in curtains of yellow, orange, lime green, and, in some cases, even red. Highlighted against the darker pines that mostly blanket the slopes, these trees appear like fringed gypsies dancing into the coming winter chill. 

Weeping Larch Tree

Everywhere too we see the pale green moss known as “old man’s beard,” a lichen that grows only in environments where the oxygen content of the air is particularly high. In Bhutan, one finds this moss draped in heavy folds across almost all of the high altitude trees, lending to the forest an ancient and mystical feeling, especially when the sun and wind set the boughs to waving gently as if they were no more than the draped arms of old wizards beckoning us upwards.

Tree with Old Man's Beard

After about two and half hours into the hike, I emerge into a high, alpine valley. A group of Bhutanese pony men are sitting at the edge, obviously finishing up the remains of their luncheon.

Alpine Valley Below Phajoding Monaster

Above the valley the long ridge of mountains that border the north side of the Thimphu valley are cast in dim, blue shadow. Against them, the various clustered buildings of the Phajoding monastery can be seen like pale, white ghosts. Bordering the valley, the weeping larches light up the dark shadows like slow, burning torches. Sun splashes the valley floor in a pool of luminescent green light. It’s a beautiful place, one of the loveliest valleys I’ve been in since coming to Bhutan. High on the mountainside, I can see a cluster of vertical yellow prayer flags near to Phajoding. Clearly, some teacher or other is there giving teachings.

Phajoding Monastery Complex

I chat briefly with the pony men. They are on their way back to Paro after having brought a group of trekkers from Paro to Thimphu on the Druk Path Trek, the same route that I trekked last spring with the American Buddhists. They will go back spending only one night along the way, even though they are just now beginning their walk at about noon. As I talk to them, they rapidly pack away their lunch makings and, whistling and calling, entice the ponies, which have wandered off across the valley floor, to return.

As soon as Chris and Jennifer arrive, we decide to keep on up the trail, if only to try to stay ahead of the pony train. I’ve found that the ponies tend to tear up the trail, making a peaceful walk a bit more difficult. 

I quickly surge ahead and am again surprised by how the forest landscape changes as I move higher and higher. Gone are the low-lying rhododendron bushes and twisted oaks. Now, I find more and more of the immense blue pines, and forests of firs all covered over with “Old Man’s Beard.” It feels good to move quickly, even though my breath comes hard. After an hour or so of hiking, I notice that I can see the top of the ridge. 

As I approach, I see there is a large, traditional style Bhutanese chorten perched at the top. Billowing, white clouds appear over the edge of the ridge like fabulous castles stacking themselves into the high, blue sky. Emerging at the chorten itself, I see that I’ve reached the pass of Pumola. Beyond, the mountains stretch out to the horizon. 

Pumola Chorten

I want only to keep walking, day after day, higher and higher into that endless realm—no cars, no buildings other than these occasional traditional Buddhist structures, no sounds but wind, birds, and the tinkling bells tied to the necks of the pony trains that carry supplies into northern Bhutan. I sit in the warm sun and watch the slow movement of the clouds. My mind is empty. My thought rise and dissolve like the white edge of the cloud that unfurls above me. All anxieties concerning my dissertation, my career, my work, health, etc., vanish into silence. No wonder I like being up this high. There is something, clearly physiological, about such high-altitude spaces, at least for me. I feel at home here, like I’ve found a peace and silence that I’ve been craving my whole life. I always feel like this when I come to these places. I just wish it were possible to remain here longer. Soon, I hear the jingling of the ponies’ bells and the shouts and whoops of the pony men driving them up the pass. As I watch, they emerge in a stream of color and sound around the chorten. The head pony wears a headdress with a long, red tassel that dances back and forth. The pony, freed of his load, trots about the pass. As he passes near me, I can see that his coat is thick and fuzzy, shiny and healthy as he readies himself for the winter. The pony train moves on over the pass leaving behind two men and two large loads of goods that are clearly meant for the small retreat building halfway up the side of the mountain to the right of the pass. One of the men is obviously drunk on ara. He lies down in the shade and immediately passes out while his companion attempts to rouse him.

When Jennifer and Chris arrive, we eat lunch while the wind whispers around us. I discover that Jennifer feels similarly to me about walking away into these wide, blue worlds. As for Chris, well, I’ve always known he feels that way! A short way below us, by the chorten, the two Bhutanese men seem sufficiently roused to eat their own meal. When they are finished they come up and join us. With my bad Dzongkha, I attempt to find out where they are going. It appears that they have brought supplies for the hermit who lives in the hermitage and that they, themselves, are continuing on to Taktsang. It will take them three days to reach there. I wonder that they seem to have no supplies of their own—no tents, no food, nothing but an empty bottle of ara. But perhaps they have places to stay along the way—such as at the hermit’s place. As we are about to leave and begin our journey down, the hermit himself arrives with his dirty red robes hiked up about his waist. He grins toothlessly at us and listens to his friends describe us (or so I imagine from what they seem to be saying). He seems cheerful and delighted by our presence and invites us to come up to the hermitage. Since it’s already about 2:30 and we have at least a three-hour walk back down, we decline with regret. It might be great fun to see what it’s like up there. Next time. 

As we descend through the gathering dusk, the light becomes even more golden and fragile. Warmth bleeds away into the darkening sky. The trees loom overhead like dark sentinels welcoming the coming night. Jennifer, Chris, and I all make plans for our next hike, and hopefully, for a longer trek in the near future. 

Happy Hiker