Day Eighteen | 8,350 ft Above Sea Level
The air is out, the trek is coming to an end—and that’s good. A shampoo bottle broke inside my backpack, the muesli bars have all been eaten, and there’s no more clean laundry. I can no longer see lentils with rice, and my chapped lips heal so sparingly that every bite aches. Everything points towards the end.
A veil of grief and lack of motivation beleaguers the group. Simon boarded the bus two days ago; after crossing the pass, the charm of the circuit had left him. Tatjana cries for the ascent. Yves stays with his son who does not get out of bed, and Francesco keeps silently to himself. We are all exhausted, but we’re also so very relieved.
And now we’ll all go about our ways, whichever that way will be.
The Annapurna trek has triggered something in all of us. Simon is going into a Buddhist monastery for a month. Yves is going to climb to Everest Base Camp with his nine-year-old son. Francesco will fly to Bangladesh to work with microcredits for poor people. Tatjana will remain in Nepal to volunteer.
I’m still searching for answers, but I do know that I have to pack differently for the next trek.
One last time I repack my backpack, which now weighs just 17 kilograms (37.5 pounds). Parallel to the path, on the opposite side, leads a road, separated by the raging Gandaki River. Honking lorries remind us that we are once again close to civilization.
Two porters cross our path in sandals and short pants. The Nepalese are frost-proof, even though many of them come from the low-lying and subtropical region of Terai. Both carry 40 kilograms (88 pounds) of heavy loads on their backs, though they still appear to be light-footed, decent, and satisfied. Behind them are two Western trekkers, in full equipment: mountain boots, water-repellent pants, walking sticks, chic sunglasses. What they lack entirely, though, are backpacks of their own.
After we pass them, I am sure they are disgusted with the biting smell we leave behind.
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