I could smell them but could not see them. The poignant, almost rose-like fragrance confused me at first. It was familiar but out of place. Rhododendrons? Here? I am at 14,000 feet in the Himalaya Mountains of Nepal, not home in the foothills of Washington State. Maybe the altitude — with its reduced oxygen concentration — is playing tricks on me. My breath comes in labored drags; it feels as though my thirty pound backpack is lying on my chest. My head pounds in time with my pulse from the exertion of climbing this steep, dusty ridge; sweat is draining down the back of my sun baked neck. I knew I was pushing myself but I didn’t think I was near hallucination. But it is there, unmistakable, the sweet smell of home. Rhododendrons. I am sure of it. But where are they?
I continue towards the ridge crest one hundred yards ahead. My boots don’t always pick themselves up off the trail, choosing to shuffle forward instead. They kick up dust; it swirls in the light wind and coats my parched throat. The temperature here is a paradox and it is impossible to dress properly. A light breeze in the shade brings a shiver, but step into the still air of direct sunlight and every pore brings forth cooling sweat. When I again reach shade in the compact, arid scrub brush; I return to shivering. Hot and cold. Always changing.
Fifty yards more. I take a slow rest step, intending to save my energy. The rest step is a plodding technique: I lock my back leg to let my skeleton take the weight and give my muscles a break. It is slow, but effective. “Slow and steady wins the race” my guide, John, reminds me. Sometimes slow and steady is hard to discern from stopping but the difference is there. Stopped is stopped; I need a break. Slow and steady is an act of resistance against aching muscles and waning spirit. Slow and steady means the mountains and ridges and valleys have not beaten me, not yet.
Thud. Thud. Thud. I hear the effort of my body. I do not have a hydration pack and make the mistake of not drinking enough water. The result is thickened blood pumped by a heart pounding at over 180 beats per minute, the rate for a fast running pace at sea level. But I am not running, I am taking one shuffle step every two seconds. Even when I rest at night, my heart works at 120 beats per minute – that of a brisk walking pace anywhere but here. The indifferent wind rustles the shrubs and my pack groans and creaks with each step. And that thud, thud, thud stays in my ears.
I’m squinting behind dark sunglasses. At this altitude, I am closer to the sun and it is more intense. My only protection is a pair of knock-off Oakley sunglasses purchased for $10 in a grimy shop in Kathmandu. (They will break and be taped back together before the trip is finished.) Cheap sunglasses can be very expensive when they fail. For now they are doing an excellent job of capturing sweat from my forehead and blurring the inside of the already scratched lenses. I would wipe them clean but what would be the use in that? The trickle from my head doesn’t stop and will blur them again within seconds.
Twenty yards below the ridge crest, I see the next stupa – a religious stone pyramid like structure rising 20 feet or more. This one is painted white, many seasons ago, and has an ornate, golden top. Harsh winter snows and an ever present wind have taken their toll on the walls. I see stone tablets surrounding the base of the stupa, each covered with hand chiseled prayers. I’d stop here to admire the work that’s if my goal weren’t so close.
I am still alone on the trail as I reach the stupa, cresting the ridge at a snail’s pace. I ache my pack off stiff shoulders and lay it on a stone wall so I can retrieve my camera. I want to document what I see below me on the other side of the ridge. To prove to others that it is real. Because I still don’t entirely believe what I sensed before is indeed what I see now. Rhododendrons. A whole forest of them, larger than any I have seen in my hikes through the Cascade Mountains back home.
Pink. White. Purple on the fringes. All mixed with dusky green leaves. I reach out to a nearby plant to see if it is real. The abrasive grain of the branch, the smooth tops of the leaves, and the chalky, rough underside. The graceful velvet of the petals. Even the bees lazily buzzing past to collect nectar. It is all real. So beautifully real.
I came to Nepal to experience something new, climb a mountain, make new friends. I wasn’t expecting to feel at home in the foreign mountains after struggling on the trail for days on end. And I wasn’t ready for the joy I felt when I first saw the flowering rhododendron trees of Nepal.