In only one day of hiking, the scenery was already changing. The jungle was nearly finished and the rice farms were replaced by towering cliffs. Flat land seemed rare. Every hour, a waterfall would drop down from the walls, white like spilled milk running off a table.
The elevation rose only 600m, but the total climbing for the day was nearly double that. Every hill of the day dwarfed the prior day's. Once at the top, hoping I'd reached the maximum elevation for the day, thus ending the climbing, the hills would then drop back down to the river below. Every time this happened, I was almost heartbroken, then I'd look up at the mountains and see the mosaic of the gray rocks, the red moss, the yellow autumn leaves, the coniferous green, a living Monet painting before me, and I'd cease caring.
I hiked with the Slovaks for half of the day, but they stopped too much, took too many photos and talked the whole time. It may sound funny to hear me of all people accusing others of a lack of silence, but hiking for me is a quiet solitary experience. I love the sound of the wind in the trees, the river rushing beside me, the horses in the field neighing, even the crow waiting for a dropped chunk of granola. When the boys stopped for a long lunch of soup and bread, I moved on after a soda and a granola bar, promising to meet them in Karte. Word from passing hikers said they'd only made it as far as Tal, the prior village. The spaces between villages do set most trekkers at similar paces. Everyone stops in Manang to acclimatize and rest for the epic three day climb of Thorung La. Karte was a peaceful stopping point; I was the only tourist in town. The family running the guest house were cold, but the bed was soft, the shower was hot and the dal bhat was delicious, made with vegetables picked that evening from the garden. I don't think they were too happy for my stop; my suspicion is that they expected a night off.
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