Favorite pictures, people and peaks.

The fingertips of my favorite views play softly on my mind, and with every turn, the lenses of my eyes cradle the beauty of the Solokhumbu, the Everest Region.  The spectacular peaks reach upward leaving the valleys below to claim a silent beauty that only descending depths can own. The Himalaya is like no other, claiming eight of the world's ten highest mountains and over 100  peaks that are above 23,000 feet.  Here are some of my favorite people, pictures and memories. 

The bridges, the bridges, the bridges

The bridges cross the rivers and valleys; they connect the mountains and save five or six hours walking time plus they provide a safe (?) way to cross raging rivers–especially during the monsoons. Most suspension bridges are 100 to 150 meters wide (over 500 feet–think 1 1/2 football fields.) People share the bridges with the Yak trains, and yes, the Yaks have the right of way. Too many people and Yaks on a bridge can cause a lot of sway, motion and angst, but for the most part, they are safe when not overloaded or being washed away by flooding or bursting mountain lakes. Unfortunately, global warming has caused glaciers to recede and fill glacier lakes. Two years ago one of the lakes burst, flooded a village, killed many people and wiped out a bridge. I crossed the new bridge hoping it didn't suffer the same fate. This scenario has become an ongoing concern for the Solo Khumbu Region and many studies are being done on the effects of global warming in the Himalayas. Meanwhile, the bridges stretch across vast valleys linking families, trekkers, climbers and commerce. In a sense, they are holding the country together as they sway far above the Dudh Koshi, the Bhote Koshi and the Imja Khola.

The valleys open up to the rarest of beauty…

Cameras cannot do justice to valleys so deep that light barely trickles in as we, the strangers, look down but move upward, stretching to reach the top. Our lenses are no better than those of our equipment at trying to pick up the animals and birds in the undergrowth. Occasionally we sight the icy waterfalls, the snowy traces of yesterdays moisture or the dust announcing the arrival of another Yak train, but for the most part the valleys own their own beauty and we are silenced by the vastness of their depth and the secrets that reside therein.

Children on the trail

My favorite pictures are of the village children on the trail. The run and play up and down the mountain-sides, in cold river streams, through the middle of the villages and on the steep stairways in the larger tea houses. Some read and study on top of precarious structures and around hot stoves. Everyone looks after the little ones; truly, a village raises these children.

And, for the first time, bicycles have been introduced to Lukla, the small village that encircles the notoriously dangers airport. Lukla has a semi flat stretch through the small village; thus, I saw children trying out the two village bikes.

Tea House Trekking

In the Solo Khumbu (the Everest region), there are few level spots; thus the villages have tea houses built on mountain sides. Tents have to be set up right next to tea houses– the tea houses are a little warmer and oh so convenient. In the evening, some trekkers and climbers sit on Tibetan carpet benches and play cards or exchange world views while others gather around the stove fed by Yak dung that was hopefully dried for six days removing any "smell." The 6x8 rooms have a sleeping platform, a roll of foam and an extra sherpa made yak quilt. The windows have small gaps bringing frigid air from the outside. The paper thin walls are laced with holes and gaps for checking on your neighbors health and welfare. A little toilet down the hall means you don't have to wander out in the middle of the night. This in itself is a good reason for shunning a tent for a tea house on a blizzardly blustery night. Gossip runs through the tea houses like the water in the rushing Dhude Khosi River, so everyone hears about the weather further up, what's happening at base camp, what passes are closed and what's going on with climbing preparations for the assault on the mountains. It was scary to hear news of a (non-Sherpa) trekking guide dying of AMS at Lobuche, a Japanese woman with altitude sickness being airlifted from base camp and a solo trekking man missing from the mountains–last seen a month ago in Namche. It was a reminder to all of us to pay attention to the signs of altitude sickness and go down when needed.

Village Schools along the trail

Children, such as my guide's son, often walk as much as two hours each way–everyday–to attend school in a distant village. The government provides schools for children up to 6th grade; after that, if parents can't afford to send their children to private schools, their children carry loads, tend to farms or work in tea houses. Students must go to boarding school in Kathmandu if they want to attend high school. It is expensive, so few children have the opportunity. I talked to teachers about the challenges they face in preparing their students for a future that requires English and an education past the 6th grade.

Trail Life in the Himalayas

The trail is full of unbelievable views, from the highest mountain tops to the lowest rivers from the smallest children walking two hours to school to he strongest porter carrying goods to market or lumber to build tea houses. After Lukla, everything is transported on the backs of horses, yaks or people. Those living in the Solo Khumbu Region have never seen wheels except for those on an airplane.

Lukla is a bustling village

Lukla is an exciting place because all treks and climbs start and end here unless a group hikes in from Jeeri. As a result, tea houses, coffee shops and shop fronts are full of music, chatter and bartering. My first order of business was to find the Lukla post office. I was given multiple directions by various people who seemed to know; however it turned into quite an adventure. After radiant conversations with locals, I arrived in the vicinity and circled until I spotted a sign on a window of a charming house, in a pasture at the end of the runway. After walking around the house, I spied an open doorway, asked permission to enter and heard a voice say, "up." A women appeared and pointed at the stairway. Sure enough, a man at the top nodded that a room to the right was indeed the post office and soon I was in conversation and action, mailing my postcards and discussing the post office. The postmaster pulled out a sack, reached in and selected some stamps, licked them, stuck them on my post cards, and stamped them with a big club. On my way back up the mountain, I shared my experience with a couple of Britts who had been searching for the same place and were delighted to hear my story and directions.