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

Divine Feminine Tour Part One

(The next series of posts will concern a Buddhist tour that I was fortunate enough to be part of at the end of April, beginning of May 2012)

The morning of the Divine Feminine tour dawns gray and cloudy. Mists draped over the foothills of the Paro valley obscure the small window through which the Druk Air pilots must angle their planes in order to land safely at the Paro Airport. Standing in the airport parking lot, our small group of tour guides and friends wonders aloud when (and indeed, if) the flights bringing in the tour participants will be able to land. The first flight, due in from Bangkok, can occasionally be heard circling high overhead, but after a moment or two, the sound of the airplane’s jet engines fades, and we know the plane has returned to Bagdogra to await the lifting of the morning’s mist. After a few cups of tea, we too return to wait at the guesthouse.

Morning Fog

Happily, some hours later, I find myself bouncing along the winding road that snakes above the Paro valley with a small group of tired, but very delighted travelers, including Chris’s best friend Eric, who has come in from Seattle. Our small group is off to visit a small monastery known as “little Taktsang,” or more officially as Dzongdrakha Goemba, while the other guides await the arrival of the rest of the group whose flights continue to be delayed as a result of the morning’s fog. Our small group consists of Suzanne and Judy, both Buddhists from Massachusetts and both students of my dear friend Willa Miller; Christina, an artist from Shanghai; Eric from Seattle; and Linda from California. Since it would be impossible to describe everyone’s experiences—I only have access to my own—I will just relate this trip from my own perspective and hope that others from the trip will fill in the blanks of their own experiences.

Paro Valley 

Dzongdrakha Goemba, consisting of four chapels and a Nepali-style large white chorten, is built into the side of a cliff overlooking a small side valley off the main Paro valley. In the late afternoon sun, its white washed wall gleam enticingly. According the Buddhist lore, this site is one of many important sites where Guru Rinpoche subdued local demons, thereby converting the valley and its inhabitants to Buddhism.

Dzongdrakha Goemba

Reverse View from Goemba

Our hike isn’t very long, but for the group, a number of whom have come from sea level and most of whom have had almost no sleep for a couple of days, the walk is a bit taxing. We stop briefly at a local farmhouse where an elderly woman lives alone caring for her young grandson. She fends off her insanely barking dog, who, fortunately for us, is chained, as we pass. It is easy to imagine how quiet and peaceful her home must be most of the time as the valley drops down through green paddy fields and apple orchards to the distant Paro Chuu river. A twenty-minute walk later we arrive under the eaves of the cliffs and make our way along the narrow, stone steps that gradually ascend to the lhakang. As we walk, we suddenly note a flurry of activity overhead. Looking up, I meet the eyes of a white-faced, black-eyed languar monkey. As we both freeze, I note his size—he’s nearly a large as a small child. Swiftly, I note the presence of other languars above him on the cliffs. They appear to have taken over a small chapel perched on the cliff side. The only downside to this is that we will have to walk beneath them to continue on to the goemba.

Gray Languar Monkey

Sangay, our very capable guide, is concerned that the monkeys will throw things at us as we pass. But eventually we just go on, since there isn’t much choice other than turning back and arrive at the large Nepali-style chorten without incident. An elderly caretaker opens the main lhakang for us and we all sit silently on the wooden floor worn smooth as glass by thousands of pilgrims’ feet beneath the huge darkly golden statue of Guru Rinpoche. As we rise to leave, the caretaker pulls out his huge pathang (sword—the Bhutanese terms means “warrior’s sign”) to show us. He’s clearly proud of his sword and his job and we all share a laugh. But the shadows are growing long over the valley and we must get back to join up with the other half of the group, who have hopefully arrived.

Erik Hanisch Looking Down Over Paro Valley

I run ahead of the group back to the old woman’s farmhouse to retrieve Linda, who has decided to rest there rather than continue on up to the lhakang. I arrive to find her sitting with the owner, the two of them having forged a bond of affection and shared perception in spite of language barriers. I manage a bit of rough translation for Linda as she thanks the old woman and we continue down the trail. We are both feeling quite emotional for some reason and find ourselves talking about our mothers as we walk through the wind and golden evening light back to the waiting bus.

Cliffs at Dzongdrakha Goemba

Back at the hotel the entire group comes together for the first time to discuss the next day’s plan. I am delighted to see Willa and Mike, dear friends from Boston. Although we had originally planned to go to Taktsang the next day, it becomes clear that this plan will need to be changed. For most everyone, a hike to Taktsang on the very first day of the pilgrimage after little sleep and no time to adjust to the altitude is simply not going to work. So we decide instead to visit the Paro Dzong and the museum in the Taa Dzong above it. Lying awake later in my quiet guesthouse room, I wonder why I am so worked up. I realize that much of my wakefulness has to do with a feeling of responsibility. I want to make sure this group of people is well-taken care of so that they can best experience the sacredness of this place I have somehow come to call home. For Buddhists, Bhutan remains one of the last unspoiled, living sources of active Himalayan Buddhist practice. At the same time, so many great masters and mistresses have lived, practiced, and died in Bhutan, such that almost any spot emits a feeling of longevity, of purity, and peacefulness, not unlike the feeling the one gets when traveling through the old abbeys and cathedrals of Great Britain. As a Buddhist, it is not possible to visit Bhutan and not feel oneself tugged at by tendrils of possibility—that great space and relaxation of the mind freed from its habits and concerns, outstretched and all-pervasive like a dark blue canopy of sky. Lying awake in the darkness of the Paro valley, I reflect that my experience so far of living in Bhutan has been a kind of ongoing pilgrimage—outer, inner, and secret—in which I have come face-to-face with so many of the expectations and ideas that unconsciously form a foundation for my sense of security. With so many of these stripped away by living in a foreign country, not to mention basically camping in the wilderness in central Bhutan, so much has been let go of. It is only now, after nearly ten months of living here that I realize how much space has been created for new things to come in, and especially how much the pure brilliance of the energy that permeates Bhutanese soil and inspires Bhutanese people has changed my own sense of myself and others. Falling asleep, I feel overwhelmed with gratitude for my good fortune in having ended up here.

And Miles to Go Before I Sleep Part Two

The next day, as we are preparing to leave Thimphu in order to get back to Taktsi in time for our classes on Tuesday, I get a text message from Francoise Pommaret on my phone informing me that due to heavy, torrential rains from what we are all fearing is an early arrival of the monsoon, the road block we so easily navigated outside of Trongsa on our way to Thimphu has completely collapsed. In fact, it seems a large chunk of the mountain, loosened by heavy rain, has dropped down into the valley taking a sizeable section of the road with it. They anticipate at least a week before the road is passable. Since there is only one east-west road in Bhutan, we are now faced with a choice—either find a guest house to hole up in for a week during peak tourist season (an unlikely gambit) or commit to a three-day drive down to Gelephug on the southern border of Bhutan and back up to Taktsi. After weighing our options, we decide to make the drive. After all, we’ve never seen southern Bhutan, and I am anxious to get back to Taktsi to continue working with Lopen Tsering Chorten, who is my new research partner and a brilliant reader of Tibetan texts. We will miss an additional day of our classes, but at least we won’t miss the entire week (or more, given Bhutanese notions of time—who knows when the road will actually be cleared). I feel sorry for the tour companies, as many of the tours are calculated to get tourists from one guesthouse to another on time. Having the only road to Bumthang (the major destination) blocked, means a huge pain in the neck for most of the tours. We leave Thimphu in the mist and weave our way back up the Dochu-la pass. Although I have now crossed this pass multiple time, I never tire of how different it looks every time. Today, it is cold and dark with high thick clouds shifting to release shafts of brilliant light down into the valleys below.

Dochu-la in Clouds

Arriving back at the CNR guesthouse, we get an early night’s sleep, knowing that the next days’ driving will be long and arduous.

The next morning dawns mostly sunny and warm at this lower altitude. Having discovered the night before that there was no hot water in our room, we’ve been told we can shower in a room upstairs (the same room we stayed in two days previously). The mystery, of course, is why we could not stay in that same room and have the hot water available? There’s no point in asking. We merely take our towels in hand and climb the stairs to the room with warm water. It’s an easy drive to Wangdi, the point at which the road diverges, one branch heading east and the other south. For the first time, we take the road south. Almost immediately the road degenerates into a pit of mud, bumps, streams, and pools of water so muddy that it is impossible to tell how deep they are until one is half-way through them. We have entered the beginning of the Punakhatsangchu hydro-electric project. Because most valleys in Bhutan are so narrow, the construction for the project has consumed the entire valley for a distance, we learn, of at least 25 miles. Labor camp after labor camp perches above the churning river, while enormous piles of sand, stone, rubble, and construction materials are heaped along the river banks or safely fenced behind high chained fences.

Beginning of Punakhatsangchu Hydro-electric Project

The actual project is astounding. Instead of one hydro-electric site there are two—the Punakhatsangchu 1 and 2. In both cases, the water is diverted into tunnels running beneath the mountains for a distance of up to 20 kilometers after which point the tunnel plummets downward for about a kilometer, shooting the water with tremendous force into giant turbines from which the power will be generated. This project has been under way since 2006 and is projected to be completed by 2016.

Diverting the Water

As we make our agonizing way along the mostly-destroyed road, we can’t help but marvel at the scope of the project as well as at what has clearly been a complete transformation of a peaceful mountain valley as enormous influxes of Indian laborers set up their camps and working places along the banks of the river. The project is one of at least four such hydro-electric projects in Bhutan. Two are finished. This one has at least four more years, and the final project along the Mangde chu river is the one nearest to us in Taktsi. During the days, we often hear the sounds of blasting as they begin the process of tunneling beneath the steep mountains. These projects represent the future of Bhutan. Without selling hydro-electric power to India, Bhutan’s only source of revenue would be tourism.

From a Distance

It takes us over two hours to drive 25 miles over the worst road I have every driven in Bhutan, which is saying something! By the time we finally emerge from the shadow of the project, I feel like a ping-pong ball that has been bounced around inside a metal cage for hours. I just want to pull over and lie down, but we have hours more driving before we reach Gelephug. Happily, the road, though still potted and broken in many places, now feels like a super-highway. We enter a long section of road that swoops and dives down through a gorgeous pine forested section of mountains. The main noticeable change in our drive is the fact that the road almost continuously angles downward. Bhutan’s geography is almost entire mountainous but for a thin strip along the southernmost edge, the area we are heading for, which border on the Indian plains. We take turns driving and eventually find a spot above the river under a tree for lunch. I’m regretting wearing long pants and a long sleeve shirt, entirely necessary where we were, but clearly increasingly unnecessary the lower we descend. Some dogs come bounding over hoping to partake of our lunch of leftover pizza, apples, and peanut butter. We feed them some old bread instead.

Rest Spot with Dogs

A warm wind whips up the river valley, both delightful and somewhat oppressive in its steady consistency. At a certain point, we cross over the river and again begin to climb, this time in a long steady ascent through the Himalayan foothills. The country is gorgeous—green, lush, sparkling with recent rain. Over our heads the clouds gather and at intervals we drive through sheets of monsoon rain. But gradually we catch glimpses of the plains of Assam below us.

Rain in the Foothills

Chris is hopeful that we might see a  wild elephant, since this is the part of Bhutan in which wild elephants have been rampaging, trampling farmers crops and generally making nuisances of themselves. I am more anxious just to get out of the car. Finally, we reach the checkpoint that marks our entrance into Gelephug dzongkag (district). The young Bhutanese man at the point is beside himself when Chris comes up to present our documents. He regales us with stories about how difficult this assignment, his first since he graduated from high school, is. So many Indian nationals whose visas must be processed and work permits issued. He offers to feed us dinner, but we decline hoping to reach Gelephug town by dark.

Plains of Southern Bhutan

For the first time in Bhutan, I find myself driving along a long, straight, paved stretch of road. I actually am able to get the car into fourth gear—a small miracle, but must often downshift in the fading light to avoid the ubiquitous crowds of school children who walk along the main road after being let out from school at (hmm) 6:30pm! These children have an uncanny ability to sense that our car carries an unusual load—foreigners—and they literally stop dead in their tracks to stare and call out after us. I wonder how many foreigners they’ve actually seen in their lives. Gelephug is not a popular tourist destination in Bhutan. But when we finally reach the town itself, even though darkness is nearly complete, we can still see the forests of banana trees and palms that line the brightly lit streets. The town is small, but orderly and bustling. We find our hotel and lug our bags inside, gratefully collapsing into the VIP room for a dinner of chicken, rice, the usual veggies cooked in butter and mushroom soup. This seems to be the classic tourist buffet menu. It has little flavor and, for me, little interest. I still cannot understand why tourist buffets all over the world have this tendency to whitewash the food, as if tourists have no interest in eating anything that falls outside their blandest expectations. Since I will be co-leading a tour here in Bhutan in about two weeks, I know I will get more than my share of this kind of food, and I’m not remotely excited.

A Different Environment--Gelephug

After dinner, we turn on the air-conditioning in our room and collapse in bed. Even at night, the air is sultry, humid, and hot. Coming from the higher altitudes, it’s a bit of a shock to the system, though I do think that given a bit of time, I’d adjust happily. Early the next morning, we are on the road. Almost immediately, we begin the long day’s climb back up into the mountains. Chris is sad to leave the plains without seeing an elephant, but we both note the wide culverts and broad riverbeds filled with stones. In this dry season, almost no water is running through them, but it’s easy to imagine how much water must come surging through this area during the monsoon.

Dry River Valley

It’s stunningly beautiful and I really wish we could linger and explore some of these remote villages perched on the ridges of the foothills, glimmering in the sun. We pick up a woman and her two children who flag us down. She climbs in the back of our van with a large bundle of banana leaves. Since we encountered her half-way up the side of what appears to be a mountainside devoid of human habitations, we can’t figure out how she and her children happen to be there. But as usual in Bhutan, one cannot assume that people are not living in even what appears to be most remote area.

Prayers of the Dead

At the same time, one of the things I love most about this country is just how under-populated it is. It makes me happy to know that there are places left in the world where one can be entirely surrounded by wilderness, where there are no sounds of airplane or cars or peoples’ voices or industry of any sort. Some basic part of me is deeply at home in such silences and this is certainly one of the most attractive and compelling elements of Bhutan for me. My soul can actually relax here. Even in the middle of downtown Thimphu, which can seem especially busy and noisy, if one awakes in the middle of the night, there is silence—that deep, thick, heavy silence of mountains in the darkness, where only the trees lift up their dark branches to the high, Himalayan stars.

Foothills Stupa

As the day wears on, we again find ourselves driving through torrential rains. People are complaining that the monsoon has come far too early this year, another sign, it seems to me, of the ever-more-obvious signs of global climate change. These heavy rains are especially dangerous in Bhutan, since the mountains are so steep. When the soil is moistened to such a degree, landslides become a daily event. With human habitations and basic infra-structures perched so precariously on these same mountain slopes, it’s not hard to see how transportation and communication can be so easily disrupted.

Precarious Road

We eat lunch at a perch high over the Mandge chu river. Not a single car passes us. In fact, we’ve seen only about three vehicles since we left Gelephug. This must be one of the least traveled roads in Bhutan, which is somewhat too bad, since it is so amazingly beautiful. The lower hills gradually merge into the higher peaks and the landscape changes from tropical to semi-tropical to pine-forested and back to Himalayan high-altitude jungle. Everywhere flowers are blooming in glorious abandon—white, yellow, pink, red, purple. I wish I had a book of flowers to find all their names.

Canopy of Flowers

We are somewhat apprehensive as the afternoon wears on since a friend has warned us that the last 40 kilometers of the road to Taktsi from the south is absolutely terrible and often impassable, especially if its been raining, which it very obviously has been doing a lot of. And, true to her words, we encounter a long section of road that is nothing but mud and ruts, but compared to the 25-mile stretch we did the day before, this seems fairly mild. Nevertheless, it is dark by the time the driveway to Taktsi and ILCS campus comes into view. We’ve been driving steadily for nearly 10 hours! Classes are first thing tomorrow morning and sleep is essential.

Trumpet Flowers

And Miles to Go Before I Sleep...

New Snow

We leave Taktsi early in the morning before the birds begin to sing. Across the valley, the mountains glimmer under their mantles of new snow. A deep silence lingers in the valley, encasing the new blossoms erupting on the bare branches of the trees. We drive as quickly as is possible on the twisting, treacherous roads in order to reach the first road block about 45 minutes outside of Trongsa on the road to Thimphu. There are two major road blocks along the Trongsa-Thimphu road where it appears that the entire side of the mountain has given way, plunging down into the steep valleys and leaving the road a mere hint carved into the slopes. As a result, road workers shut down passage on the road for long periods of time in order to rebuilt the road. Coming from Trongsa we must reach the road block by 9am in order to get by or we have to wait until 12:30, which makes reaching Thimphu in one day an even longer journey. As it is, if we make it through this first road block, by the time we get to the final pass over which we must drive to Thimphu, we will have to wait until after 6pm to be allowed to pass.

Just Past the Roadblock

We skate through the first roadblock and continue on. Much later in the day, we arrive in the deep, wide valley of Lobeysa and the College of Natural Resources where we are spending a couple of nights. Lobeysa sits at about 3,500 feet, about 4,000 feet lower than Taktsi. Hence, here spring has arrived. The air is warm, soft and wind swirls through the wide valley. The market is filled with fresh oranges. Flowers are coming up everywhere and the pine forests in which the College of Nature Resources is located are fragrant with the poignant smell of pine.

High Altitude Rhododendrons 

Spring Flowers

More Flowers

We settle into the guesthouse to await the arrival of the School for International Training’s study-abroad students, who should be arriving shortly. The next day, I am to give them a short lecture on the Chimi Lhakang, the temple initiated by the Dukpa Kunley, the Buddhist saint on whom I am writing my dissertation.

Signs of Drukpa Kunley

When morning arrives a large group of us walk up to the Chimi Lhakang and sit under the large Bodhi tree that shades the temple. I give a short presentation on Drukpa Kunley and the history of the Chimi Lhakang, but the best part of the lecture comes when we convince the Bhutanese guide for the SIT students to repeat some of the oral stories he was told about Drukpa Kunley as a child. These get everyone laughing, including the Bhutanese students from the College of Natural Resources, who have come along for the lecture. And in fact this is one of the best parts of this project—the oral traditions of Drukpa Kunley. For me, this element of my project will be the most challenging, but likely the most rewarding, as it will require me to travel to local villages and hopefully convince people there to tell me their stories. Obviously, this is not something I can do alone—the language barrier alone would make it nearly impossible, never mind the politics of being a foreigner simply arriving in a remote village. Happily, I have made contact with a number of people from these areas who are willing to facilitate these meetings. However, since I have committed to teach English poetry for the first half of this semester at ILCS, my ethnographic wanderings will have to wait until later this spring. After the lecture is finished, we all go inside the temple to receive a blessing from the ten-inch carved phallus and bow and arrows of Drukpa Kunley. The SIT students seem a bit taken aback by this—a blessing from a carved penis? Most of them are not particularly interested in Buddhism and this whole event must seem a bit odd. But they dutifully bow their heads for the blessing and receive a palm-full of blessed water to sip and splash over their heads. I try to pry some information concerning the texts stored in the lhakang from the local monks, but the only monks available look to be about 8 years old and know nothing at all about the texts. Soon we are all on our way back to the local restaurant catering to foreigners at the entrance to the long trail up the lhakang for the obligatory buffet lunch. Chris and I take our farewells and begin the drive up the long Dochu-lha pass to try to get to Thimphu by early evening. Again, we skate through the second roadblock without delays. As we descend into the Thimphu valley, the sunlight suddenly turns red. It is only 3pm, but the light is much like it would be at sunset, a kind of ochre brilliance that slides up and down the mountain slopes. Finally, as we come around one curve, I am able to see that the sun is obscured by huge plumes of smoke. From our vantage point, it appears that the entire Thimphu valley must be in flames, but as we continue our descent, we are relieved to note that the fire is behind the mountains in which Thimphu is located. It’s not clear how much danger there is to Thimphu itself but at least it is not currently on fire.

Waterfall

That night we stay with a friend at Royal Thimphu College, the only private college in Bhutan, located south of Thimphu up on the mountain slopes. It’s a beautiful location and the facilities are lovely—a welcome change from the chaos and ongoing construction of Taktsi. But the next morning we are up early to meet the head of research from RUB, who is accompanying us up to Tango Monastery where we will meet my new friend, Tulku Ngawang, a young man who is considered to be the reincarnation of Lopen Norbu Wangchuk, who was the third principle of ILCS in the early days. Tulku is bringing us to meet the highest reincarnate lama in Bhutan, His Holiness Gyalsey Tendzin Rabgye, who also just happens to be a reincarnation of the grandson of Drukpa Kunley. The day is gorgeous, cold, clear, and blue, the only downside being the clouds of smoke that continue to rise over the ridges, occasionally blocking the full brilliance of the Bhutanese sun. As we approach the base of the mountain upon which Tango Monastery perches, Dorji calls Tulku. He is on his way down to meet us and to perform a Rab gNas—or blessing ceremony—for a friend’s new car.

Royal Thimphu College

We decide to seize the opportunity and ask Tulku if he can also bless our new car, even though it is very dirty from the long road the endless plumes of fine dust that take the place of thick, sticky mud in the dry season. He is more than amenable and we are told to open all the doors of the car and to provide some offerings for the short feast that will take place as part of the blessing. We also have some silk scarves and a small, golden prayer wheel that is solar powered to put on the dashboard. I love these little golden prayer wheels. Most Bhutanese cars have them and I was insistent that we buy one too. But since we have not yet mounted it, it is a perfect object to be blessed before pasting it to the dashboard. A group of monks arrange a small altar with food and drink offerings, incense, scented water, and some texts. Tulku sits with them and they all chant from a short text. After a bit, one of the monks gets up with a bunch of lit incense that is smoking and walks over to our car. He passes the smoke over and throughout the interior of the car and then goes over to Tulku’s friends car (which is far cleaner than ours) and repeats the process. The same procedure takes place with a vase of purified water, which is poured over every surface of the car, both inside and out. After these ritual purification, the monks and Tulku chant some more and Tulku plays the ritual instruments that signal the protective deities to come and inhabit the cars. When he finishes, we are all served a small cup of tea and a small plate of the food that was on the shrine, which is now considered prasad, blessed food. We barely have time to lock the car before Tulku is hurrying us up the trail to Tango so that we will not miss our audience with His Holiness. While he insists that he walks very quickly and we might not be able to keep up with him, in fact he talks so much on the way up that it takes us over an hour. But as we walk I listen to him tell stories about his past lives. These are tales he’s heard from the disciples of his past life, and they are quite fascinating. Apparently, many of his past lives were famous astrologers, who prophesied for lay-people. Most monasteries have their own astrologers, but Tulku’s past lives were known for their accurate predictions. I told him we should write such stories down, before they become lost in these dark mountains.

Tango Monastery

The audience with His Holiness takes place in a beautiful house built high above the monastery with a spectacular view facing down the Thimphu valley. The house is one of the nicest I’ve seen in Bhutan, with wall-to-wall wood paneling and thick soft carpets. His Holiness is only 19 years old. He is a skinny young man with thick coke-bottle glasses and a bald head. But his radiant energy fills the room as soon as he enters it. As I hold out a scarf and kneel down for his blessing, I give him a very traditional Tibetan greeting given to high lamas. He gives a peal of delighted laughter and looks straight at me through his thick lenses. “Thank you!” he says loudly in English with a big smile. I like him immediately.

His Holiness' View

Through Tulku and in my own halting Tibetan, I explain my project to him. He’s thrilled and tells me that this project is very important. Drukpa Kunley has been deeply misunderstood. The tales of his drinking and lechery have led people to think that he is merely a jokester.  But, and at this point His Holiness looks very seriously at me, he is, in fact, a Buddha. He blesses my text and my project and tells me to send any questions I have to him through Tulku. I am delighted. The audience could not have gone better and I feel fully accepted into the Drukpa Kagyu world of which Drukpa Kunley was so much a part. Hiking back down to the car much later in the day, I feel blessed by the place as much as the people. Finally, after nearly a year of being here, the doors are truly opening, psychologically and well as physically.
See next blog for continuation of this trip...