Lower Pisang – Manang
Morning dawned clear but somewhat colder than previously – the socks I’d left to dry on the railing were frozen stiff. We warmed up somewhat before breakfast, hovering near the juniper scented fire in the dining hall.
There are two routes from Lower Pisang to Manang, Bhagawati explained to us over breakfast. One follows the river, gently ascending toward Manang. The other climbs higher for the view. Some of our porters would take the lower, faster route to go ahead and make arrangements for our accommodations. We would take the higher, longer route. It would be hard, she admitted, but it would be worth it.
I was at my lowest ebb at that point and would gladly have accompanied the porters. Miserable with cold symptoms, I was tired, achey and coughing continually. Ria, our Dutch recruit, had slipped me a course of amoxicillin the day before – out of pity, no doubt – but I wasn’t showing any improvement as yet. I could spend this entire entry telling you how miserable I was.
Misery is not what I remember of Day 6 and the high route to Manang.
The trail started out relatively gently through town and past an elaborately carved and decorated prayer wheel wall. The trail wound through soft needled pines and along the edge of a tranquil, turquoise lake.
And then we began to climb – two and a half hours of zig-zagging up the face of the hill, a gain of 500 metres in elevation. There was no chance of my keeping up in my state; I had to rest each time the trail offered a place to perch. Bhagawati relieved me of my day pack, but I still struggled – partly from illness but, as we were approaching 3700 metres in elevation, likely some of the fatigue was due to the thin air. My thoughts kept circling around the presence of a clinic at Manang. If I really was seriously ill, would I be allowed to continue over the pass? What would it mean for everyone else if I were sent back? What would it mean for me? Would I have to travel back along the road in transport of some kind? That was terrifying to contemplate. I slogged along, step-by-step, keeping my own pace but well behind the others. All my training and strength seemed to have deserted me.
At last, the trail brought us to the town of Ghyaru and tea-time – and it was worth every hard-fought, fatiguing, hacking, aching moment. Facing us across the valley Annapurna II blazed brilliantly in full sun – so close you felt that you might lean out and touch the mountain face. The sunshine was warm and luxurious on our faces as we rested and soaked in the wondrous beauty of the view. The day continued clear and warm, despite the snow that lingered here and there on the trail. The Annapurna massif accompanied our every step, looming over the day. (I don’t think I had a proper understanding of the word ‘looming” before this; there is just no other word for that weight of presence!) That view – that’s what I remember. That’s what I will always remember.
The path continued up from Ghyaru; I continued to struggle. My companions encouraged me, tussling with Bhagawati for their turn shouldering my pack. Michael and Juliet reassured me that before the trek was done we’d all have had similar low points – this from the experience of their previous trek. Patrick and Kathleen made much of stopping for frequent photos, something that allowed them to slow down legitimately and keep pace with me. We lunched at Ngawal, a leisurely stop that allowed me to catch my breath. From there the trail began to descend towards Manang and I found my energy returning somewhat, but I was still the last traipsing into Manang – or I would have been had Janet not hung back to keep me company.
Day’s end found us in the Yak Hotel on the main street of Manang. Imagine a scene out of a western movie, if they filmed westerns in Nepal. The building was multi-storied and rambling with a confusing array of balconies and staircases. I was guided to my room, bundled into my sleeping bag and left to sleep until Bhagawati came to fetch me for dinner. Up the dimly lit stairs to the uppermost level, my legs barely lifting me, the door opened into a wonder of warmth and light, delicious odours and the bustle of kitchen staff and roar of conversation. The fire was crackling, the dining hall was filled to bursting with trekkers and the menu was an international hodge podge: pizza, burritos, rosti, dhal baat….in my memory the evening remains surreally magical.
Warm, fed, restored, I stumbled down through the labyrinthine levels to my cosy suite. I snuggled back into my sleeping bag, a thermos of steaming mint tea to see me through the night, awaiting a visit to the clinic in the morning.