VALOROUS

I left the lodge early, aware that I had a long walk ahead, more like a climb at the beginning, down hundreds of irregular stone steps, sometimes lapsing into crumbling earth and requiring a slow and careful step.

At the bottom there was the ubiquitous swinging bridge composed of rotting planks of wood stretched across a wire netting frame, fifteen metres above the racing river. I waited until a laden yak crossed the bridge before me before venturing onto it. This always gave me courage.

On the other side, the climb began again, this time ascending into heaven, or at first view this is how it appeared. The mist had made the steps even more slippery and while going down made my knees screech, going up pained my heart and lungs until I could hardly bear it. But, as with all paths, it ended, and ended as usual at a tea house.

From the teahouse, the view of the gorge below was completely obscured by mist. On the other side of the path was the ledge at the right height for porters to set down and reload their heavy baskets or packs. I lowered my pack onto the same ledge and sat down at a table, calling for sweet chai.

Just then a group of 20 somethings climbed into view from the staircase and began yahooing and shouting, hugging and high fiving, so proud and full of swagger. Behind them was a porter, his basket overloaded with 4 litre tins of oil, the tumpline straining at his forehead. As he tried to walk around the group of heroes, his foot, clad in a short gumboot, slipped on a stone and his legs went from under him, landing him on his bum with a thump.

One of the heroes glanced aside and said, sorry mate, before joining the others in the tea house where they sat laughing at the poor man trying to get up, his load still on his back, an upturned tortoise. Two porters ran to the fellow’s aid and between the three of us we just managed to get him to his feet. The heroes cheered and raised their beers in the air.