Trekking

Kaan jaane ho? is the polite greeting when you meet someone on the trail in the Himalayas in Nepal. On the Pacific Crest Trail in the Russian Wilderness in California going south (Google it, if you don't know where that is) you say, "'you going through?" Then you might get a smile, and a quick answer before they streak off northward. "Don't forget to enjoy the view!"
Kaan jaane ho? Where are you going? It's an invitation to tell where you're going, where you came from, what in the world a white person like you is doing here in the mountains. It's a chance to find out what village they're from, and why they're going to another one, or why they're going to the city. When I was growing up we were often not on the trekking thoroughfares. We didn't carry big packs. We didn't have coolies and mules. Often we were going to visit Aunty Mary in Paime, or Dr Hale in Amp Pipal, or Ganesh Bahadur in Lamjung.
There is always a view. The PCT had some amazing ones. What I missed on the PCT was not having a tea shop and a chautara to rest under, and not being able to look forward to an evening meal shared with the local... cowherd and his family, mayor, midwife, merchant, school teacher, and other travelers sharing the same stop.
It was a great trek, though.

Russian Wilderness July 2016

The mountains in Ecuador are impressive in another way. Maybe that's why Ecuador feels natural to me. Last month we drove through: no trekking. This is my favorite.

Antisana

Shelter

In a shady cove in the woods in Brandywine Park, almost invisible from the main trail, a sturdy stone and beam shelter stands lonely. Those who happen upon it these days are up to no good -- as attested by the graffiti on the walls and smells and detritus around the back. But if those stone could speak, they would tell stories of families gathering to commemorate a marriage (low-budget) or graduation, badminton and punch, neighbors being community. It used to be fully equipped for a day in the park. These days it stand empty from dusk till dawn when the park is closed, while homeless men sleep under the freeway bridge a few steps away.
High in the Himalayas, in shady spots along the way, public shelters are common, mapped out about a day's trek apart, waiting for the next night's trekkers: tourists, mountaineers, merchants, refugees, goat herders. They provide a fire pit for cooking rice and dahl, maybe a nettle stew. Signs of previous occupants remain day after day, connecting users with others. It's safe shelter for the night.
In the modern day, editorials decry the lack of care for the religious pilgrimage sites (Hindustani Times, June 2013), and far too much graffiti mars these Indian national treasures. Now visitors drive their SUV's up mountainsides and don't take the time to stay overnight.
One day, maybe you can visit one of these shelters, either in the Brandywine, or in the Himalayas, or in your local park, and stay a minute to read the stories written there.

Choices

On my lunch (half-) hour walk from my downtown office, I took a new path and was faced with the choice of climbing over an ancient rock outcropping on the Brandywine River or walking on the pavement with the chance of a car coming around the curve too close. I chose the pavement.

There was a time in my life--and a place--when I would have climbed the rocks. Disregarding the deer ticks and poison ivy, disregarding the fact that I was wearing a long skirt, disregarding possibly having to blaze my own trail, I would have charged forward, intrepid in the face of a challenge. It all began with my brother taking me on a walk in the mountains, then making me find our way home. He didn't leave me; he just wouldn't tell me which way to go.

I've had lots of walks in the mountains since then. When you go up the mountain, you know you'll get a view at the top. When you go down the mountain, chances are you'll come to rushing water (with lots of rocks to climb). When you walk along the beach, you can look far ahead and set your own goals--plus, your feet get all smooth from the rubbing sand.

In the Himalayas, you really have to put your mp3 away and pay attention to the sounds, sights and smells around you while you walk.

I'll have to take that wrong turn again one day, and climb the rocks next time.

Hot Tea at Dawn

When you're trekking in Nepal, you walk from early until mid-morning tea and biscuits, either at the top of a mountain or at the bottom, depending on how you feel. You stop again at the end of the day, at a local goTh or someone's house along the road. You can order dinner with your stay. If your'e lucky, they'll have some fresh meat to go with your rice and dahl, for a few extra rupees. If you're really lucky, there will be a vegetable.
There's no rest like the sleep of exhaustion after a day on the trail. If it's a one-flea establishment, you might get a room for your family apart from the other travelers  They'll let you use your own bedding. If it's a five-flea place, you'll be happy for a few wooden slats between you and the animals. Sometimes those are the best spots. Sometimes that's as far as you could make it before the next place to stop.
Next morning the hostess will get you tea at dawn before you start the day's trek.
On the doorstep of my colonial two-story in an older, established neighborhood in the Brandywine Hundred,  I stand to greet the dawn. The tag from my tea bag hangs from my no-spill travel mug, as I wait for my carpool. It'll be two or three mountain passes before I can stop tonight, but I'll be back home here at the end of it.

The Same

As I waited for the city bus in the rain, my memories carried me back to another rainy afternoon, far away. I pulled the drawstring tight around my hood, pulled my hands inside the fur lined sleeves of my city coat. Today is a bad day to forget my gloves. At least the outside of my coat is waterproof, but the wind is strong and cold is finding its way in at the seams, up under the edge; the waterproof coating has already worn off the boots I wear to work.
It was a late storm that caught us unprepared at the top of our trek. I'm pretty sure I had Indian-made tennis shoes on my feet, and no fur-lined coat. The backpack helped keep my back warm, but the cold water ran down and soaked my kurta and jeans. We were young, though, and it didn't really matter. We ducked down into the shepherds' hut, laughing, and sat close together to keep out the cold. Some of the shepherds shared their woolen shawls and blankets, and they used up some of their precious firewood to heat up the smokey hut.
The lights of the bus finally distinguished themselves from the other rush hour traffic. I climbed up, gratefully looking back at the stone pillar of the church that had broken the wind during my wait. My cell phone rang in my pocket. It was my husband saying he'd been happy to come pick me up at work so I wouldn't have to wait in the rain.
Drying out on the bus towards home, my thoughts range many highways I have traveled. I want to tell my stories, to share my experiences. I want it to be worthwhile for others to read. I also want to join my highways, span the oceans separating them. There is really not that much distance between my rainy afternoon in Delaware and a high sheep pasture on the side of a mountain in Northwestern India. Is there?