Walking to Rara Lake

We stayed at Rara Lake 3 days. It had once been a thriving community with a couple of villages around the shore. The residents were relocated a decade before to create the national park. The lake was a clear deep blue, resting in a hanging valley. At the north end, the land fell abruptly down to the Mugu River, with 20,000 foot towers beyond. Similar peaks closed in the other sides, perfectly reflected in the water's morning calm.The spectacular setting warranted preservation, but it was easy to sympathize with the displaced locals who were moved to the hot grasslands bordering India. The only establishments remaining were a post office and park headquarters. The ranger's log informed us we were the twelfth and thirteenth foreign guests of the year.

The final evening, we steeled ourselves for the long haul out. No airplanes this way. Diane perused the map. "A quick shot down the Khotyar River, over a ridge to the Singa River, follow it to the Tila River, then over a ridge to Dailekh. We'll be halfway there." I groaned. Each of those ridges represented a pass which might dwarf the one we climbed the first day out.

The countryside appeared prosperous. The villages contained slate-roofed houses, white-washed and adorned with orange ribbons and potted cacti. The valleys were heavily terraced and cultivated with rice and lentils. The river fueled an elaborate mill system, with water channeled through wooden chutes into small buildings housing the wheels and grindstones.

But prosperous did not mean worldly. "I count twenty, five adults and a bunch of kids," I reported on the crowd peeking in our tent. We had gotten used to staring, ever since the first goatherd had squatted down and lit his pipe when Diane motioned that she intended to bathe. Here the whole village had turned out. "What shall we take for entertainment?" We selected the binoculars and passed them slowly down the line, teaching what to look through and how to focus, though frequently unsucessfully. These proved to be of limited interest. We proceeded to the mirror. The children had seen their reflections before but here was something new. Each child cackled as he gaped at the larger-than-life size image that came back from the magnifying mirror in Diane's compact. The adults were no less delighted.

"How about a game?" I suggested. "Sure, cut some rope and we'll see if we can remember the figure eight string game." We couldn't get past the third stage, but our repeated failures amused the group. We gave the rope to some girls. They had no more success. By now, we were tiring of the attention. Mimor's pressure cooker suddenly emitted a sharp hiss as it let off steam, distracting the crowd. We beat a hasty retreat behind our tent flap.

These crowds were now the norm as we trekked through an area that had seen few westerners. At lunch, we brought out pictures from home for a group of teenagers. "Malcolm and Shorty," I pointed at our cats. The boys pulled the pictures close to their eyes, not comprehending the image. Cats live in Nepal, so I was puzzled at their astonishment. I learned later that travelers for a century have observed South Asians that could not visualize a three dimensional object from a photograph.

The terrain proved as trying a the map had implied. "Dendi looks confused," Diane observed when we stopped the first night from the lake. "He's lost. We came too far down the valley." I had been reading trail descriptions. The guide was seeking directions from the firewood supplier, who appeared to know little more. The turbaned gentleman from our coin exchange happened by. He waved into the mountains. The next day Dendi sheepishly led us up that path. Seven hours later we had climbed a mile upward and hit snow. Fortunately the top was in sight.

That pass was the first of several over 11,000 feet. We soon realized we had it easy. The trek to Surkhet was on a highway, with vehicles of goats, a few horses, and men. The goats were outfitted with woolen sidebags to carry salt between Tibet and India. The horses carried heavier loads, but had to detour around a long vertical stretch of trail. Men were the principal beasts of burden. They carried enormous loads, secured on their backs with a tump line around the forehead, up slopes which we struggled to scramble down. Cement, corrugated roofing tin, loops of irrigation hose. They eyed the ligher loads of our porters with envy.

As we traveled south, signs of civilization increased. Tables and chairs appeared in the teashops. Travelers carried radios and wore T-shirts from California. Dailekh was a metropolis, with well-stocked groceries, pharmacies, and clothiers. Twelve days from Rara Lake, we hit a gravel roadbed which would take us down to Surkhet. Washouts would have sent any vehicles tumbling down the mountainside so we still had a day's descent under our own power. By mid-afternoon, we strolled along main street Surkhet, dodging trucks and eying chocolate bars. We had trekked 150 miles in 3 weeks, encountering one other westerner, a Swiss medical student who camped with us at the lake.

"One last peaceful night," I remarked as we zipped up the tent. Tomorrow we would catch the bus back to Nepalganj. Suddenly, the sounds of a loudspeaker drifted across the field, electric lights blinked on in the surrounding buildings. Civilization had returned.