Steam Clouds in Tatopani

"Om Mane Padme Om" carved on Mani stones at the start of the long climb, our day's destination being the far ridge.

Anabatic breezes slipped slowly in succession up the mountain causing the long trains of prayer flags to rise high, flutter momentarily and then gently descend, only to rise again on the next waft in a long slow cadence, like God breathing in slumber.

Gently rising prayer flags over Tatopani

Clouds of steam drifted up to be teased apart and fade into nothingness. The only sounds were the susurrating splash of steadily streaming water and quiet conversation. It was evening in Tatopani and villagers had come for the evening ritual of a wash in the geothermal springs that poured perpetually from the belly of the mountain through elegantly decorated stone conduits, followed by a convivial wallow in the swimming pool sized tubs built into the slope.

A cool evening makes for lots of steam.

The evening's bathing ritual enjoyed by all, youngest villager to the oldest.

Mothers, wearing only a simple cloth shift, scrubbed naked children and chattered quietly with husbands standing under the steaming cascades. After a day's climb that took us from Thambuchet at 1700 metres to Tatopani at 2607 metres the hot soak was the perfect end to a superb, if exhausting, day.

Sitting makes things less precarious on the slick stone floor.

That morning we'd woken early for a frugal breakfast of Tamang style pancakes, a thick doughy slab somewhat like a large crumpet, and hot sweet tea. People were already gathering around yesterday's bus for the return journey to Kathmandu. Asheesh briefed us on the day ahead while Yong-tashi produced a well frayed rope and proceeded to strap our two backpacks together. He'd carry both our backpacks over the next few days while all we carried where daypacks.
I've walked many a trail over mountains and along coasts and never had anyone carried my pack for me, but every dollar pumped into the local economy makes a big difference so I was happy to swallow my pride and pay for a guide and porter, although I still had my misgivings about the size of the packs versus the size of the porter.

Yong-tashi our porter, my son and Asheesh our guide at the start of the 1st day's trekking.

Thambuchet was slowly awakening, a woman with a large basket on her back was rhythmically harvesting nettles for cow fodder. After a swish of her long handled sickle she'd sweep the cuttings into her basket with a pair of very long tongs. Most of the houses had animal shelters below and the living quarters above. Hand looms, some with partially finished cloths, stood waiting for the days weaving.

Long tongs mean the nettles don't sting and you don't have to bend.

Tamang weave fine, brightly striped cloth which is made into a number of useful items.

Humans on top, animals below. Dwellings make the most of limited space.

We left Thambuchet and headed up the valley on narrow pathways threading through paddies, across a small suspension bridge and past the first of many chortens and mani we would encounter along the way. At the entrance to another small village we met three small girls, destined for a tough life of hard work, carrying large bundles of straw. They watched us pass with shy smiles and dirty faces.

Chortens, flanked by carved Mani, marking the way. We were supposed to pass on the left but these stones only had one path to the right. The locals didn't seem perturbed about dogma.

No fashion toys or sleepovers, these girls live a life far removed from that which western girls take for granted.

For a second time we crossed the river and then the climbing started. The path contoured tortuously, switching back upon itself so that at times a few steps would put you directly above the person behind you. Up and up we climbed and my legs became like jelly and lungs pumped like bellows, living an easy life at sea level was not translating well to hiking at altitude. I was also monitoring my son, this was his first hike and the start was the stiffest climb he'd ever done. Would he whimper and give up or vasbyt*and keep going?

Just as I was wondering how much further before I could rest my aching legs we topped a ridge and there, on a flat ledge cut into the mountain, was a kiosk with red plastic chairs and a million dollar view. Time for tea! The view was spectacular, to our left the valley with the tiny houses of Thambuchet in the distance, to our right the ridges soaring to snow covered Ganesh Himal, dazzling white against a baby blue sky.

Incongruous plastic chairs at the mid-morning break.

My fears about the strength and endurance my son and our porter were unfounded on both counts. We'd hardly made it through the first day of the trek before my son, once he got his breath back, started jabbering about where we should go walking next and kept pumping me about hikes I'd done in the past; where were they? what where they like? was it harder than this one or easier? A ceaseless, but enjoyable, jabber on all things outdoors and adventurous.
You can read all the parenting books you want and subscribe to all the theories, from Dr Spock to the over-the-top Tiger Mothers, but all you really need to know about being a father is to listen and take heed of the lessons in "Cat's in the Cradle". Money, toys and gadgets no substitute for time with your kids. We were enjoying ourselves immensely.

A Tamang child eyes me warily.

And what of Yong-tashie and the double backpacks? While we were perspiring and panting he hardly broke a sweat, bounding up the mountain while chatting to Asheesh without so much as breathing hard.
The phrase of the day was bistare bistare (bee-sta-reh) meaning slowly, take your time and walk at a pace you can handle. Why is it that "slowly" is a repetition in so many languages? I've picked up Swahili's pole pole (Pow-leh Pow-leh) while in East Africa and Arabic's shoei shoei (shway shway) in the Middle East and, now, the similar double-barrel phrase in Nepali.

After the initial steepness the path eased off drastically, but still a steady climb through forest and fields. I recognised the first shoots of potatoes pushing through the soil while other fields stood waste deep in oats, their green heads drooping but not yet golden.
Glittering streams flowed chattering between rocks and the sun released the heady smell of wet earth from their banks. Butterflies flittered about and unknown insects buzzed and chittered in the overgrowth. There were expertly packed dry stone walls everywhere, even many of the large buildings of more than one story where built without mortar, expert hands making sure the corners were true and crisp.

With little flat ground in Langtang, most buildings are cut back into the slope. This house was built entirely from dry stone walls.

We reached our destination a lot earlier than I expected, just in time for lunch. The menu was surprisingly extensive but because cooking fuel is scarce (wood, in a country suffering from deforestation) I consulted my son and we agreed that we'd joined Asheesh and Yong-tashi in their usual Dal Bhaat. And so it would be for the next few days with rare exception, Dhal Baat for lunch and for supper too, with some meat or delicious onion soup (home made from locally grown onions) thrown in where available. But hunger is the best seasoning and we inevitably wolfed it down as if it was the finest caviar.

The guesthouse owner was named Bamen (at first I thought Asheesh was talking about him being the barman) and he was very hospitable and kept his guesthouse very neat and clean. At breakfast the next morning he proudly produced his own yak milk cheese which was exceedingly good, hard and strongly flavoured.

Bamen's wife and children enjoy some family time as afternoon rain brews.

Cloud shrouded peaks of Langtang Lirung from our guesthouse balcony. Almost all houses take in trekkers for much needed cash, you could walk for weeks in these mountains and never need a tent.

After lunch we put on some swimming gear and walked to the springs after which the village was named, I was expecting some rocks and a trickle of water but to our surprise we found three large cisterns built into the hillside, each with it's own twin-inlets.
The drains of the two outer baths had been plugged and they were slowly filling with ochre coloured water, one still knee deep as it filled and the other above the waist.

Elegantly carve mythical beasts spew (almost) scalding water.

My son thought he'd try the 'showers' first and he'd hardly stepped under the flow when he yelped and sprang out like a ... well ... a scalded cat. The village was named Tatopani ( tato being hot and pani meaning water) and from the inevitable quick leap of most who stepped under the water for the first time it was obvious why.
We spent a few hours lazing around the springs, alternating between standing under the hot flow, wallowing in the waste deep baths and sitting on the edge to let the mountain breeze cool us again.

A mountain life of hard toil shows in the muscle and sinew.

By the end of the day the ochre coloured water had stained our swimming costumes dull red and turned my son's surfer blonde hair a tawny gold that would take days to rinse out.

Even in these remote parts you can get a beer and as I sat sipping my daily ration on the guest house 'terrace' with the million dollar view I replayed the day in my mind.
At last, trekking in Nepal, one more life-goal achieved.
What would my son go on to do in his time?

sunburnt ... and in need of a shave

*vasbyt, pronounced 'fuss-bait' - Afrikaans word meaning to persevere under difficult circumstances. Literally translated as 'bite down hard and hang on'.