“Over every mountain, there is a path, although it may not be seen from the valley.”
-Theodore Roethke
We break from Lower Sinuwa after bolting down a quick breakfast of omelettes and coffee, making for the sister neighborhood of Upper Sinuwa. It's a steep ascent, requiring about 45 minutes of hiking. I find myself wondering how the two Sinuwas could be considered a single village; the distance separating them is not insignificant. But then, I’m still getting back into trekking shape, and perhaps I’ll feel differently on the return journey. In any case, the views from Upper Sinuwa are worth the burn: framed by prayer flags, the iconic summit of Machapuchare dominates the horizon, while Annapurna I and Hiunchuli march along its western flank. We’ll be walking right between these mountains tomorrow as we approach the Annapurna Sanctuary, but from here they seem almost like a contiguous monolith of rock, ice, and snow.
We pass through Upper Sinuwa without stopping; we’re just finding our rhythm for the morning, and I want to cover some ground before the sun’s heat burns away the morning chill. On the long trail between Upper Sinuwa and Dovan, we spend these cool hours of the morning treading beneath the shaded boughs of a lush green forest. Rhododendron, oak, and bamboo surround us on all sides, with the distant patter of falling water sounding pleasantly from somewhere behind the screen of trees. This is a land of waterfalls, and we’re in for some splendid sights throughout the course of the day. First, though, it’s something manmade which catches my eye.
Looking through the forest ahead, we spy a small structure sheltered between the trees and festooned with a colorful blaze of prayer flags. Ahead of us, Hari breaks off a sprig of a small plant that strongly resembles mint but lacks its fragrance: this is known locally as deurali, and it shares its name with our destination for today’s hike. Following Hari’s example, each of us places a cluster of the tiny leaves into the eaves of the little shrine before ringing a small bell nestled within its dark interior. It's a clear, pure sound: a somehow pristine resonance that burns itself into my memory as an inseparable part of the Himalayan soundscape. Hari explains that we are appeasing the local god of these mountains; this part of Nepal is rife stories of ancient times, and regional nuances to the Buddhist and Hindu religions are as complex as they are fascinating. Over the course of the next few hours, we’ll encounter several more of these small temples. Hari mentions that failing to appease these gods or bringing meat into the region risks incurring their wrath: bringing tempests of rain, wind, and hail. Better not to tempt fate.
Our next stop is Bamboo, and it's a curious town. At first blush, it’s much like any of the other Himalayan villages we’ve visited during the first two days of our Annapurna Base Camp Trek. But the guesthouses and restaurants here specialize in roasting their own coffee beans and brewing a staggering variety of coffee drinks: cappuccinos, macchiatos, and espresso. It’s a welcome change from the instant coffee powder that usually predominates at elevation, and I feel a little guilty that I’m looking for something more refreshing in the mounting heat of the late morning. Unshouldering our bags, we enjoy the flavor of hot lemon and lemon ginger tea, watching clouds drift lazily across the faces of the mountains.
But we don’t linger long over our refreshments: moving on from Bamboo, we now find ourselves descending a long and steep series of stairs. Just when I think we must have reached the bottom, the trail zigs sharply to the left, and another staircase is revealed in all of its dubious glory. While the descent makes for a nice change of pace compared to the relentless climb of the early morning, I recognize that this is something of a double-edged sword: we'll be retracing our own steps in a few short days, and I shudder inwardly at the thought of climbing these steps in the other direction.
The path levels out soon enough, though, and our march continues through the verdant greenery of the rhododendron forest. The path here is cut with a series of streams, trickling their way from the heights of the region’s wooded hills to join the Modi Khola somewhere off to our right. We’re forced to make multiple crossings on little bridges made of cut logs, which are piled together in untidy heaps that actually turn out to make for sturdy, solid footing over the water below. I do make a mental note that there’s very little water at this time of year; during the summer monsoon, I imagine that this would make for a more thrilling crossing.
In any case, it’s not long before we find ourselves in Dovan, where the rumbling of my stomach can be heard even over the sound of the Modi Khola’s waters rushing across beds of river stones. But we press on to Upper Dovan, a relatively new settlement that's a bit higher in elevation. Lunch in Upper Dovan takes the form of vegetable thukpa, at least for me: I can’t get enough of the hearty vegetarian broth heaped with egg noodles. Krista goes for something less traditional: pizza. It’s a bold choice, I think, but I look forward to seeing how it turns out. To our shared delight, it’s excellent, piled high with cheese and mushrooms. I poach a slice or two when my bowl of thukpa has been drained to its last drop.
The terrain for the rest of the day alternates between stone-cut stairs and large boulders. Descending here, ascending there, the afternoon’s hike takes us over a few more stream crossings. The temperature is steady and the afternoon doesn’t offer so much as a drop of rain, but the views are surprisingly variable: a dense fog blows in from nowhere, socking in the mountains and rendering them all but invisible. Within mere minutes, though, the fog is swept away by the Himalayan winds, and the mountains shine forth with all their considerable grandeur. But once again it’s the juxtaposition of natural beauty and manmade art that really fires my imagination: we soon find ourselves approaching an enormous Buddhist stupa perched precariously over the tumbling Modi Khola and framed against a staggering backdrop of no fewer than a dozen waterfalls. The cataracts fall freely down the face of the mountain, separating and rejoining according to their own whims. It’s a stunning sight, and we stop to rest and take plenty of photographs. I make a point to circumambulate the stupa in accordance with local traditions; there are also a few smaller shrines in the stupa’s shadow, where I repeat the ritual of offering a deurali leaf and ringing a bell.
Leaving this splendid scene behind, we now ascend through another stretch of cool woodlands to arrive at Hinku Cave. This is a tremendous overhang of rock on the side of the trail, offering temporary solace to tired trekkers seeking relief from the sun. There’s not a lot of information available about Hinku Cave, although it’s believed that locals and travelers alike once sought shelter from the elements here when they were caught overnight on the trail. I look to Hari, wondering if perhaps this was one of the caves where he was forced to spend the night 20 or 30 years ago. He only laughs—always the enigma. After catching our breath at the cave, we move on to Deurali, arriving at the lovely Himalayan town just as an afternoon mist draped itself about the mountains of the Annapurnas.
Incidentally, this proves to be the only stop on the Annapurna Base Camp Trek where we need to share our room with other travelers. We’d been warned that this might be necessary as we climbed higher into the mountains, but Himalayan guesthouses have always had something of a communal atmosphere to them. You’d never mistake them for hostels, but the shared dining room lends itself to making friends, sharing stories, and learning about other trekkers. Our own roommates are a pair of gentlemen from southern India, and they make for good company: friendly, well-mannered, and early to bed. The experience of sharing our guesthouse does, however, make me grateful that we remembered to pack one trekking essential: ear plugs.
