Aaron Putnam, a postdoctoral research scientist at the Lamont-Doherty Earth Observatory of Columbia University, is a leader of an expedition to Bhutan to examine links among climate, glaciers and water resources in the Himalaya.
Tuesday, Oct. 16
The sky was perfectly clear on the morning after our snowy two-day march from Rinchen Zoe. This welcome sight calmed our fears of becoming snowbound for the winter, so long as Tampe La remained passable. However, a new concern emerged. Clear conditions in this region yield warm days and cold nights. A warm day would melt the newly fallen snow and form streams over the steep cliffs bounding Tampe La, and a cold night would cause those streams to freeze into solid sheets of ice.
Even more treacherous for the horses (and people) than summiting the pass in deep snow would be to negotiate sheets of ice on narrow, cliff-bound traverses. So, with one fear being replaced by another, our sense of urgency did not abate, for if we were not able to surmount the pass, we would be trapped between high passes with no way out until conditions improved ? possibly spring.
The sun?s arrival accompanied our departure from Galapangchu camp. Chencho the horseman, Karma Tshering and the rest of our guides commenced packing up the camp while David Putnam, Pashupati Ssarma, Tshewang Rigzin and I set off through the enchanted fir stands of Thampe Chhu and began the long ascent toward Tampe La.
The low-lying snows of the previous day quickly melted as the sun heated the ground. The mountains overhead, however, retained impressive caps of white, indicating that the similarly tall Tampe La would also remain snow-covered.
A major concern was the ability of the horses to negotiate the tricky footing and steep heights of Tampe La together with the added peril of snow cover. With this in mind, I bore a full load on my back to relieve the horses of at least some of their burden.
Although my pack was now heavy, I felt as though a load had been lifted from my conscience. Chencho and the others were utterly determined to get everyone ? horses and humans ? over the pass safely.
Given the heavy burden, I was in no mood to waste time. I marched on steadily up toward the pass, while wondering if Ed Cook and Paul Krusic had successfully sampled the ancient juniper trees at the mountain tree line. As I reached the top of the first major climb and came in view of Thampe Tso (lake), I heard a whistle behind me and spotted Sangay bounding toward me with seemingly limitless energy. Sangay and I then climbed together into the snow-covered heights leading to Tampe La. The snow accentuated the relief of this spectacular mountain landscape, where the surreal blue-black sky is darker than the earth beneath.
Sangay and I were the first of our team to reach the high pass of Tampe La, which stands at a height of 4,700 meters (about 15,420 feet). Although snow did cover the rocks, I observed that the depth of the snow was not great and should be safely negotiable by the horses. This observation, together with our having finally reached the height of the pass that separated us from our return to civilization, elicited a sigh of relief and renewed sense of excitement. While we awaited the arrival of our team, Sangay built a snowman while I admired the view.
Soon, the others arrived at the pass. A chilling wind began to howl, and the temperature dropped considerably. With that, our team began the descent from Tampe La back down the mountain, passing the site of our camp at Omtay Tso, and aiming to reach the Gyantse homestead in the valley bottom. At Omtay Tso, Sangay bid us farewell as he awaited the arrival of the horse team over the pass.
David, Pashupati, Tshewang and I made our way from the snowy heights of the Tampe La region eventually back down to Gyantsa.
We were greeted by the family that lived at the homestead who very kindly prepared for us a vat of ?suja? (butter tea). Its rich flavor was delightful after the trudge over the pass.
As the sun began to set, we nervously awaited our still-absent horse team. Our team of guides and horses still hadn?t arrived by dinner, so Tshewang bought a chicken from the owners of Gyantse and prepared an excellent meal for the rest of us. Still, tension mounted with every moment that we did not see the rest of our team.
We huddled around a hearth in a dirt-floored shed as a bone-chilling rain commenced. Eventually, a lone headlamp flickered in the darkness from the trail above. We braced ourselves as Sangay K. emerged from the forest and informed Tshewang of the problems that had arisen for the horse team. I admit that the translation was not clear to me, so I was still unsure of the magnitude of troubles facing the remainder of our team. What was clear was that we should not expect to see Karma or his team any time soon.
Shivering in the damp cold, we retired for the evening and slept on the floor of one of the small wooden structures of Gyantse.
In the morning, we awoke to the welcome sight of horses grazing in the meadow above the Nikka Chhu river. We discovered the rest of our exhausted team in a sea of sleeping bags on the floor of the Gyantse barn. The snowline had lowered on the ridges around Tampe La, and they gleamed white with deep, fresh snow.
We sipped some tea while Karma Tshering, sitting in his bag, told us of their saga. As it turns out, the horses indeed had difficulty negotiating the steep, snowy pass. This prompted our guides to unload the horses and mules and usher them over the pass unburdened, actually carrying the animals through some difficult spots. Then our guides carried the loads in exhausting shifts across the pass.
This was an amazing feat undertaken by our guides, who must be among the strongest and most determined people on earth. The operation took all day, and they had not reached our camp until deep into the night. The good news was that all the horses and humans had made it down from the pass safely, and that the horses could now rest and enjoy proper grazing at Gyantse. There was a clear sense of exhausted relief, and the guides and horses enjoyed a slow morning of rest.
The worst was over. Around noon, we began our trek out of the mountains. We followed the Nikka Chhu river to our final camp, which was a grassy haven for the horses perched above the river. That night, our guides built a large bonfire of dead bamboo (the great die-off had occurred about three years ago), and our chef prepared an excellent meal with the food that remained.
Our adventures were repeatedly recounted through the evening, and soon our Bhutanese friends were singing songs in Dzongkha (the language of Bhutan), Hindi, Nepalese, as well as English. It also happened to be David?s birthday, which was celebrated with several toasts.
The next morning, our team emerged and embarked on the final trek into the small town of Sephu. Hollers of victory and shouts of ?happy journey? arose as our team arrived. We sorted our gear, packed the vehicles that waited to bring us back to Thimpu, and said our goodbyes to our cook, Chencho, and both Sangays.
But just when we thought our trials were over, we were met by an official from the forestry department who informed us that we didn?t have the proper permit to transport geological samples out of the National Park. Pashupati and Tshewang engaged in a long and animated conversation in Dzongkha, punctuated with frequent cellphone calls while we waited in nervous ignorance.
Could all that we had done to collect these samples come to naught just when we finally got them out to the road?
Finally, the impromptu meeting broke up with broad smiles and handshakes. We, and our samples, were free to go.
Karma escorted us back along the long, windy road to Thimpu. I took the time to cherish the Himalayan dirt and grime that had accumulated on my skin over the past few weeks.
In an odd way, this dirt seemed to be a tangible expression of the intensity that would soon be diluted with my first shower. After 16 days without, a shower and a bed were luxuries we no longer took for granted.
As our vehicle rumbled over rock and rill toward the parallel reality of civilization, I came to wonder if perhaps I had inadvertently discovered my inner Buddha, or more likely, whether it was simply exhaustion that caused my mind to remain in the present, with no thoughts of past travails or tomorrow?s tasks.
Source: http://scientistatwork.blogs.nytimes.com/2012/11/26/escape-from-rinchen-zoe/?partner=rss&emc=rss
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