April 27 – May 6, 2017

Nobody said a word. Nobody complained and nobody hung their head. No profanity was uttered (at least audibly). We occasionally looked at one another, if only for a check in, but then solemnly just marched on. This is the beauty of being with people experienced in traveling in the wild. Complaining was simply a waste of time and energy. Nobody was going to help us and surely there would be no vehicle to load our bikes into. This is the experience we signed up for.  We were in it.  Deep in it.

We had come over a 16k ft pass and descended into a 15k ft valley. Only moments earlier had I made the claim how much I love cycling through high mountain valleys. Irony? Shut up. The dirt road that we ecstatically cruised down from the top of the pass, degraded quickly into a river of either ankle deep mutant mud or an icy river of numbing, slushy snow… depending on which aspect of the valley we were facing. It was 33F, overcast, with a noticeable damp wind blowing through the valley. This was war, and there was no winning. The road was gone, but there were tracks from the occasional previous motorbike to at least give us direction that we were indeed making progress. Pedaling was out of the question.  Dragging.  We stopped several times to dig out the mutant mud that was accumulating on our tires, so much so that it completely seized up the wheels, preventing them from rolling. My bike started out weighing 80lbs but easily picked up an extra 7-10lbs once loaded with this instantly bonding dreg . It was already 2pm and it was clear down the valley that a storm was approaching quickly.  Too quickly. We could not move any faster nor was there any end in sight. There was no shelter and given the ground conditions, no place to pitch a tent. We just marched on. In some ways this was the worst experience I have had on this journey but in others it was the best. I somehow revel in the suffering.  How else do you know what you are capable of if you have never been pushed? How do you know the sweet without the bitter? This has almost nothing to do with cycling. It is a life lesson on perspective and I was taking notes.

Twelve miles and six hours later (pretty easy math), we came to a clearing and began a gradual descent through a slightly less muddy path, a path which could best be described as a yak track, even though it was clearly a road on the map.  The worst seemed to be behind us. After 30 minutes, we found a mostly dry meadow at about 14k ft where we decided to lick our wounds and make camp for the night.  Somehow we missed the brunt of the storm.  I was exhausted. It was 5:30pm yet still enough daylight to hopefully dry my socks and shoes, at least partially. The temperature was dropping and I knew that both would likely freeze overnight. It actually dropped into the 20’s, and as expected, my socks were frozen when I woke the next morning. Fortunately our camp was facing east, and by 9am, they were thawed into a cold, sopping heap of wool. I pulled on the rest of my wet clothes from yesterday’s war and we continued the descent, whereby after 5 miles, we of course rejoined the tarmac road.  Several hours later we came upon a small village and hopefully a place to sleep for the night. It was a simple village, not unlike any of the other Tibetan villages that we have come through, with their white washed buildings. There is something beautiful in the simplicity.

Unsurprisingly, there were no guest houses, yet none of us were excited to camp. Rain was coming in again.  Fortunately, we met a local Tibetan monk who invited us into his home for the night. It was a small (approx 500 sf), 1 room home, that he shared with his 11 year old sister and his ailing, bed bound 69 year old mother. There was just enough floor space for the 3 of us to roll out our air mattresses. All of them had beaming, warm smiles and laughter that could not even be matched by the roaring yak dung fueled fire of the stove in the center of his home. Instead of us feeling like we were imposing in their very modest and tiny space, they made us feel welcome and could not have been happier to have us there.  He served us bowls of tsampa, a traditional Tibetan meal made of roasted barley flour, yak butter, sugar, and water, mixed together into a porridgey paste.  “Lama?” he chuckled whimsically at me as I removed my hat, revealing my shaved head. Everyone in the home enjoyed a laugh. We spent the evening trying to teach the other a little bit of English or a little bit of Tibetan, and maybe even a littler bit of yoga. Note: Never try to do back bends with an 11 year old girl. You have no idea how flexible they are. They’re like play-doh.

The next morning we set out in the direction of Yachen, a small pilgrim village for thousands and Buddhist monks and nuns. It is located in a valley at 13k feet and is one of the only places that allow both monks and nuns to practice and worship in the same monastery. Men and women live in separate dwellings bisected by the river that flows through the center. The homes are seemingly not much more than tiny (approx. 300 sf), 1 room, wooden shacks, clumped together in a sort of sprawling shanti town. On top of each is a tiny room used for meditation. All are painted the same distinct Buddhist burgundy and all around there is a sea of flowing burgundy robes. This is a holy place.

Over breakfast the following day, we met a Chinese monk. He is 43, from Beijing, educated in London and used to be a reporter for the BBC.  He is the first person that I have met in China that speaks any English and as a result of his education, his was flawless.  He told us that he simply got tired of the rat race and pressures of society.  He just wanted to live more simply, so he pulled the plug.  I told him I was from Boulder and he replied that his dream was to visit the Shambala center there. I was surprised by his knowledge of Boulder having never been there, but even more surprised of the notoriety. We spent 2 hours talking to him and learning about Buddhism and his path. “What do you know about Buddhism?” he asked me. “It’s about being present and content, grateful, non-judging, questioning emotions, and simplifying your life,” I replied. “Well, that’s kind of the chicken soup canned answer,” he chuckled back. Touche.

Later in the day, we were invited into the main monastery, seated among hundreds of monks and nuns, chanting in unison. Part of me wanted to film and photograph everything so I would have documentation of this beautiful time. However, the other part felt like I was treating this like a zoo and felt guilty for it. I decided to just be present and grateful, and enjoy my chicken soup. Then something magic happened. I closed my eyes, slowed my breath, and 90 minutes melted away before I knew. I cannot remember I time when I was more calm or at peace.

And then it snowed. The outdoor toilet, which is really just an elevated box, up a makeshift staircase / ladder (stadder? laddercase?) built over the river with a hole in the floor, was iced over and precariously treacherous. It’s not really how you want to start your day at 630am while wiping the sleep from your eyes. It was indeed a lesson in perspective (and concentration).

There are so many things that I used to take for granted: fresh water, a septic system, a hot shower. It has officially been 9 days since my last shower or bathing, other than an icy river or wet wipes. I can’t remember the last time I was able to simply drink from the tap.  It is amazing the things you can simply do without once basic needs of food, warmth, and shelter are satisfied. Tibet has been an amazing class room.  I am reminded to continue to find strength, wisdom, and compassion through this journey of life and to always see the world through new eyes and perspectives.