The Final Day: Naundanda to Pokhara 18km (329km total)

I woke up somewhat excited and somewhat sad. It was certain that this was the last day of the trek. Turning around and hearding to the mountains again seemed like a good option, but the leering Pokhara and the novel idea of luxury was so close. Cheap food, affordable beer, meat and dairy,and most importantly the internet were all filling my mind. Actually, I wanted some paneer butter masala with meat naan from the Kebab King. I could almost taste it. My vow ws to eat nothing dal bhat related. No tarkari, no rice, and defiantly no lentils!

The first part of the walk was so easy, I was in shock. It was along a dirt road, mostly level with a slight downhill lsop. I was covering a kilometer in ten minutes. Passersby were shocked by my speed. Where were the unexpected 300m jumps in elevation? I really saw how used to struggling I had become.

As civilization crept, growing denser and denser, I was disconcerted by the people, the houses. My morning coffee birthed a need to urinate, but there were always people around. I wanted to blow my nose, but I didn't want the women to see me just shoot it to the ground, and my toilet paper was buried deep in my pack.

I climbed a hill near Sarangkot and saw how far and how quickly I'd walked from the mountains in just two days. The thought made me too sad to go to the famous viewpoint nearby. I just had a cup of masala tea at a slightly lower restaurant.

I could see Lakeside below and knew I was only an hour or two from the real world. There was a trail going directly there, down steep step straight down the hill. Even this close to the city, there were still pastoral lives, harvesting millet for the winter like everyone else. People would still greet me, but all asked me for money. One child was angry at me because I had no chocolate to give him; he almost ripped my cloth bag out of my hand to look. Friendly conversations with locals quickly turned to begging. It was just as poor as the truly rural places, but they lived so close to the city, they were corrupted by the envy for a more complicated existence. It may be the worst state in the world, to live the subsistence lifestyle, but without the ignorance. It was amazing to see that suburban Nepal was as depressing as suburban USA.

I walked down a manmade canal for the monsoon runoff the rest of the way to Pokhara. It was a good day for the thermals, because a troop of paragliders filled the sky. Every few seconds, the sun would disappear as one flew directly overhead.

Although my heart was set on the paneer butter masala, when I saw the cheap meat prices at a lovely restaurant in North Lakeside, right on the shore, I knew this would be my celebratory lunch joint. I ordered buffalo momos, a cheese-rum steak and veggies, with a big, ice-cold beer to wash it all down. Meat was fantastic, though I saw how unessential it is with a diet of of high protein legumes. But wow, meat is good.

I didn't consider that I still had a couple of miles left to my hotel when I decided to stuff myself with the carnivorous beer diet, so the walk was hot and slow. (Still worth it)

That night, I knew I'd treat myself to a little party. After a great shave and shower, I used the net a while, sent birthday wishes to those who'd aged on my hike, learned surprisingly that the Giants beat the Rangers in the World Series, the Vikings traded for Randy Moss then fired him, and the tea party began their crusade to destroy the planet. Fun times. I wanted the mountains back.

Once again, I met Christine. My first time was in Xining, China, then again in Ledar. I talked for a while then immediately left on quick notice, there was not time to explain that I'd had a craving for many days that could not wait any longer. I needed my Paneer Butter Masala. It did not disappoint. The chef was quite pleased that one of his dishes was the center of my desires. I stood and watched as he baked the naan in the tandoor, as I discussed with him the inferiority of naan from a conventional oven. My extensive cooking background created many chances for me to connect with restaurateurs. Though in the villages of the mountain, the cooks are confused by my fascination; cooking is a womanly ordeal. I was feeling like Anthony Bourdain. The hike engaged my four main passions, traveling, hiking, food and writing. I was sad that Mr. Bourdain already had the show that I was born to make. And worst of all, I find myself doing the same things, embracing the same experiences, though Mr. Bourdain doesn't seem like much of a hiker.

Like Anthony, I respected the need for a night on the town. Now again, my food budget already pushed my 1000 rupee a day limit, so a few beers were justified. My first stop after the internet cafe was a smoky jazz club that was an unexpected surprise in Nepal. The live band was quite good, a international collection of travelers based in Kathmandu. The rhythm section was especially phenomenal. The drummer seemed like a showboat, but during the ballads, he showed he could just sit back and groove. I wrote some postcards under a tinted light until I bumped into Thomas and Ada, a Canadian/Polish couple I met on the Sacntuary trek, probably the best friend I'd made on the whole hike. We discussed the jazz scene in Montreal and Minneapolis while drooling over the poster of Jaco Patorious, Tony Williams, and Herbie Hancock composing together. The club owner told me they made an album, which I needed to find.

The high prices drove us to the nearby Busy Bee, hottest bar in town. The band there w3as mediocre, with a singer that wouldn't even pass at a karaoke bar. The beer just as expensive, but the place had a good vibe and was packed. I played a horrible game of pool before heading back to my hotel alone. It was hard to find after dark, being up a nondescript side street of the main drag. All the stores I used as landmarks were closed. I even walked passed my hotel twice without noticing it. The gate was locked and I drunkenly climbed over the stone fence.

As I sat in my underwear, listening to my mp3 playing, realizing I was up four hours later than my latest night on the trek, I had the realization that tomorrow, I had nowhere to walk. For eight hours a day for the nearly a month, I was hiking along, my day planned, my next day planned as well. This was the saddest prospect of my whole return, I had nothing but stifling freedom ahead of me.

Since I was a child, Nepal has been on my list, standing as the one place I most wanted to see before I died. This evolved into the strong desire for a long trek in the Himalaya. I didn't even plan much outside of this and rushed to the mountain right after arriving to fulfill my destiny. Actually completing a big goal is more empty that failing. Failing has the prospect of another try, but reaching a goal is just not the same. I collapsed onto my bed, defeated by my success.

I was living an existence not so different than those from the outskirts of Pokhara. Trekking for a long time involves a strong amount of detachment from the world. The ignorance I had to develop to successfully hike outside of the world was shattered quickly by the bombardment of society and I didn't know how to reconcile with the world. Now my life was thrust into a world in which I felt like I did not belong anymore. The more access I had to the opportunities of the modern civilization, the more I realized how empty it all way. Hiking is a warm blanket. You walk then stop, then eat then sleep. Repeat. Now there is time to fill, stores with everything. I wanted so many things now, but needed none. On the trail, my only needs were progress, food and sleep. Wants were pointless; they couldn't be met. Now the wants became the world because need involve no work. Dinner is five feet away instead of five miles. I guess one can muse for a longtime under a Bohdi tree, to find the answers of true happiness, but life is too short. I have places to see.