BLOG – Page 26 – Meg Noble Peterson

What an emotional time it has been! And how hard we worked for this historic moment in our nation’s history. So much has been written about the election that I won’t bother you with my effusions, except to say that it will be wonderful to go to Kenya and Tanzania this month, as well as to other parts of the world, and feel proud of my country once again. It’s been a long and difficult eight years, and, like so many of you who have written me, there is joy in our hearts and hope and optimism in the air despite mounting economic and international problems. Attitudes seem to be changing and there is a feeling that we, as Americans in an ever-shrinking world, need to reevaluate our priorities, shore up our values, and realize that now, more than ever, we are all interconnected as human beings.

I shall be leaving on November 29 with my daughter, Martha, to travel to Kenya and Tanzania, climb Mt. Kilimanjaro, which eluded me twenty years ago, and go on safari in the Serengeti. We’ll return on December 22nd in time for a family Christmas. This was to be a trip for the extended Peterson clan, but only Martha and I could get away, so it will be our first overseas trip together since she lived in Europe. Cary, my eldest, has traveled with me to Mt. Kailash and Dharamsala. Sharing such journeys with my daughters is a supreme pleasure. It’s wonderful to live such experiences with them as we grow older.

I must correct two errors from my trip to the Canadian Rockies for all you climbing purists. First, I misnamed Sleeping Poet’s Pond, and called it Sleeping Poet’s Tarn. But it’s a bit confusing since this pond is, in fact, a hanging tarn. Go figure. Also The Nub, which we climbed, is 9,000 ft., not 8,000. I don’t want to sell myself short. But it will seem like a mere hill when we hit Kili’s 19,500 ft. summit.

I’ve had several communications from Ine Doorman, whom I met at Mt. Assiniboine. She was there with members of a ladies’ hiking club whose name really tickles me. They call themselves the W’s—Wacky Wandering Wilderness Women. Kind of makes me think of my daughter Cary’s expression for older women. Instead of calling them LOLs (Little Old Ladies) she calls them WOWs (Wonderful Older Women). Perception is everything! Ina’s club should be an example for others around the country who dig hiking and exploring, which is why I’m mentioning it. Their mission: To exercise body and soul in the company of like-minded women in the surroundings of nature. And they have an ambitious ongoing program that keeps them on their toes, literally. This should be an inspiration to those of you who want to team up with others of all ages and explore the natural world.

Most recently I spent a weekend in Vienna, VA, near Washington, DC, to visit with my old friends, Robert and Lynn Rubright. They were attending a meeting of the Board of the American Hiking Society www.americanhiking.org a national organization dedicated to promoting and protecting foot trails and the hiking experience. It draws its membership from a great number of other outdoor organizations interested in conservation and outdoor recreation. Robert, whom I’ve mentioned before as the author of two popular hiking books and the soon-to- be-published Breakfast, Lunch, and Diner (yes, I spelled that right), a witty commentary on and history of St. Louis area restaurants, is the president of the Board of Directors of AHS as well as the president of the board of the Open Space Council in St. Louis. Lynn www.lynnrubright.com is my old traveling buddy of storytelling fame and a teacher and documentary film maker in St. Louis. Her most recent book is Mama’s Window. We socialized at the home of Greg Miller, executive director of AHS and his wife, Vibha Jain Miller, and spent several hours the next day roaming around Great Falls National Park in Great Falls, VA, and Mather’s Gorge, named after Stephen Mather, who spearheaded the formation of an independent national park service. Ed Talone, the AHS office manager and another avid hiker who has walked across much of the U.S., regaled me with stories of heroes and heroines of the great outdoors, such as Mildred Norman Ryder, who walked 25,000 miles across the country for peace. Some people called her the Peace Pilgrim, or the American Mahatma Ghandi. She was a spiritual teacher, non-violence advocate, and a prophet for peace. Look her up on google. Now there was a live well lived.

I almost forgot to mention my friend Phyllis Bitow, who is competing with me as the theater guru of New Jersey. She greeted me on my return from the Rockies with tickets to an amazing production of Chekhov’s Seagull starring Kristen Scott Thomas. After that I managed such hits as Tale of Two Cities, Horton Foote’s Dividing the Estate, Richard Strauss’s Salome with the magnificent Karita Matilla (and the famous nude scene), Fifty Words with Norbert Leo Butz, Spamalot, Beachwood Drive, Basic Training with Kahlil Ashanti, the San Francisco ballet, the incomparable Patti LuPone in Gypsy, and The Atheist, with a superb Campbell Scott. Right now Phyllis is on another of her whirlwind trips, this time to Jordan and Israel. I feel grateful to have so many friends willing to share and enjoy the artistic bounty of New York City. But it’s always great to return to peaceful Maplewood (where I can rake leaves and kill myself trying to track down the mold in my basement).

I mention some of these cultural activities, like the two Plainfield Symphony concerts I played in this Fall, so I can entice some of you travelers to enjoy our home grown talent while you’re waiting for your next international adventure.

As you know, music is very close to my heart and I feel strongly that it not only enriches our lives in many different ways, but also brings people from all parts of the world together in a shared “harmony.” Nowhere has this been more evident than in the work of a young man, Mark Johnson, who appeared on Bill Moyers’ NOW October 25th and told of his organization, Playing for Change: Peace Through Music. If you look it up on line you can hear his first experiment (on YouTube), taking a blues tune played in the U.S. by a street musician and introducing it to musicians in every corner of the globe, who take it up in turn and play it (in the same key), adding the nuances of their particular culture until it becomes a multi-layered composition of exquisite beauty. He is now building music schools, with the help of local citizens, for people who have a passion to express themselves musically. And it gives a great deal of hope to many whose life has been full of tragedy and deprivation. This is a project that bears supporting.

A warm, harmonious Thanksgiving to you all….

Blog, November 18, 2008

AN ELECTION HAS BEEN WON AND TRANQUILITY REIGNS AGAIN…SORT OF

I shall be leaving on November 29 with my daughter, Martha, to travel to Kenya and Tanzania, climb Mt. Kilimanjaro, which eluded me twenty years ago, and go on safari in the Serengeti. We’ll return on December 22^nd in time for a family Christmas. This was to be a trip for the extended Peterson clan, but only Martha and I could get away, so it will be our first overseas trip together since she lived in Europe. Cary, my eldest, has traveled with me to Mt. Kailash and Dharamsala. Sharing such journeys with my daughters is a supreme pleasure. It’s wonderful to live such experiences with them as we grow older.

As you know, music is very close to my heart and I feel strongly that it not only enriches our life in many different ways, but also brings people from all parts of the world together in a shared “harmony.” Nowhere has this been more evident than in the work of a young man, Mark Johnson, who appeared on Bill Moyers’ NOW October 25th and told of his organization, Playing for Change: Peace Through Music. If you look it up on line you can hear his first experiment (on YouTube), taking a blues tune played in the U.S. by a street musician and introducing it to musicians in every corner of the globe, who take it up in turn and play it (in the same key), adding the nuances of their particular culture until it becomes a multi-layered composition of exquisite beauty. He is now building music schools, with the help of local citizens, for people who have a passion to express themselves musically. And it gives a great deal of hope to many whose life has been full of tragedy and deprivation. This is a project that bears supporting.

A warm, harmonious Thanksgiving to you all….

BACK FROM THE CANADIAN ROCKIES TO A NEW JERSEY INDIAN SUMMER!

By Meg Noble Peterson

On October 2, 2008

In Uncategorized

How great it is to hang on to summer for a few more days as I attempt to absorb the glorious month spent in the Northwest, visiting my daughter, Cary, and her friends on Whidbey Island; my nephew, Frank Magill, jr, wife, Jessica Plumb, and daughter, Zia, in Port Townsend; and climbing for ten days in the Canadian Rockies with my Himalayan buddy, Jon Pollack, of Seattle. I also spent a day and a night with Nancy and Bob Quickstad—always an inspiration—an afternoon with Yana Viniko, with whom I traveled for a time in Myanmar, and whose reports from her 2008 trip to Myanmar with Lee Compton have appeared on this blog, and, finally, a few enjoyable hours swapping stories with the peripatetic Beth Whitman of www.WanderlustAndLipstick.com. She just published her practical guide to adventuring in India, part of her Wanderlust and Lipstick series, this one entitled, For Women Traveling in India. It’s crammed full of well-researched, helpful information for anyone visiting this fascinating country. Go get it, if you want a full rundown and Hot Tips on how to negotiate this elusive and enigmatic continent.

I also spent an evening with Dale Reiger, a Whidbey Island friend I connected with in Myanmar in 2007, and he showed me his art work (not his etchings!), which he sells to help finance a community clinic he built in Honduras. His son, a Cornell student, is the executive director and has managed to staff the clinic with volunteer doctors, most of whom come from the University of Arizona. If you want to know more about Dale’s extraordinary work visit: http://saludjuntos.org/

Hikers and travelers—if you haven’t experienced the unspoiled grandeur of the Canadian Rockies, add this to your “must see” experiences of a lifetime. If you are able to do it by camping in the wilderness, as Jon Pollack and I did, that gives you a special, unspoiled view, but it can also be enjoyed by a cross-Canada train ride or by car (once you dig your own oil well…those expanses are wide and the gas is astronomical!) or by helicopter. The national parks of Canada are well-maintained, tended by a plethora of helpful personnel, and provide campsites a well as cabins and lodges to fit most budgets. It saddened us to realize how many of our own parks have been affected by deep budget cuts and do not have the number of rangers or the new facilities found in the Canadian parks.

Before beginning our ten-day sojourn, we spent a long weekend climbing in eastern Washington, having been unable to carry out our original plan to camp at Divide Camp near Mt. Adams, which was now dangerous due to subzero, snowy weather. We went with old friends Carol Johnson, and Pat and Dennis Larsen, and pitched our tents near White Pass, climbing to Tieton Pass with some added hikes on the Pacific Coast Trail. Dennis, a consummate storyteller, regaled us every evening with tales from his historical books about the 1850’s and the beginnings of the famous Oregon Trail. He recounted the life of those times, marriage and courtship practices, and stories of Ezra and Elizabeth Meeker, two pioneers who were passionate about the preservation of the trail. Ezra was an entrepreneur in the early American tradition and lived to be well into his 90’s, having driven a team of oxen across country to Washington, D. C. (in his 80’s) to call attention to the trail. Title: The Missing Chapters: The Untold Story of Ezra Meeker’s Old Oregon Trail Monument Expedition, January 1906-July 1908. The book is available from the Ezra Meeker Historical Society on the web. Dennis’s second book, Selling Soup: Ezra Meeker’s Letters from the Klondike, 1898-190, will be published in 2009.

Returning to Seattle, we drove through Stevens Canyon with its gorgeous views of the Tatooch Mountains, the foothills of Mt. Rainier. This was all within Mt. Rainier National Park. I was appalled when I saw the damage done to Sunshine Point, where Jon and I had camped two years ago. It had been completely washed out by a violent storm and flood the previous year. All the trees were gone and a river now ran through where fireplaces and tent sites once stood.

On September 8, as we drove through Idaho to the Canadian border, we noticed the effects of the pine beetle, which is devastating the forests of Canada and creeping into northern Washington. Whole swaths of forest are brown, and the giant fir trees stand like ghosts, withered and bowed. It doesn’t seem to have reached the graceful, feathery larch trees, however, which were on the verge of turning yellow, then orange, before they dropped their needles. At first we thought the damage had been caused by forest fires, but the devastation was just too widespread. Both the U.S. and Canada are working, tirelessly, to solve the problem.

We crossed into Canada at Inverness and drove to the heliport at Mt. Shark for our flight into Assiniboine Provincial Park in British Columbia. The helicopter was a compromise, because we didn’t have time for the two-day hike over Wonder Pass into the park. We set up camp on a high spot a mile from the lodge and Magog Lake, one of the pristine glacial lakes in the area. Mt. Assiniboine, often called the Matterhorn of North America, could be seen towering above the other mountains, its chiseled peak gleaming and clouds trailing like wispy prayer flags from its summit. It was very cold our first night, but we did get glimpses of Assiniboine in the sunrise—fingers of gold carved into slabs of rock. Then came the sleet and we retreated to our tent for warmth. Fortunately, the weather improved, so we headed for The Nub, an 8,000 ft. peak affording perfect views of the park, and covered with a spotty blanket of snow. We climbed steadily through larch forests until we reached one grassy knoll overlooking Sunburst and Elizabeth Lakes. Continuing on we stopped at the Nublet, just before the summit. I chickened out on the last hundred feet, which had to be reached by a slippery corridor of jagged rocks covered with ice, and completely exposed on both sides. There were trees everywhere, even at this altitude. I’m always amazed at how high the forests reach in the West. In the White Mountains our tree line ends at 4,000 ft.

After our climb we stopped in at Mt. Assiniboine Lodge, a charming log house run by Barbara Renner. She informed me that my nephew, Frank Magill, had given me a birthday present of two dinners that evening (naturally, Jon ate one of them). Well, that was one terrific present, believe me! And the company was wonderful, too. I bonded with a Vancouver lady, originally from Holland, Ine Doorman, and found out more about the park and Barbara’s family. Her children are all skiers and one daughter won a silver medal at the 2006 winter Olympics in Torino, Italy. What a lovely spot to have been raised! For those of you who want a backcountry inn, accessible by hiking, on skis, or by helicopter, with a guide, comfortable rooms or cabins, and incredible meals, go to: www.assiniboinelodge.com. I just found out that it was the first cross-country ski lodge in the Canadian Rockies and is celebrating 80 historical years.

On our second day we moved to one of the small cabins in the Naiset enclave (like Assiniboine, this is an Indian name). Barbara suggested this. She was afraid that we would freeze, since the weather predictions were for more cold. She even offered me a down comforter and pillow. Did I look that fragile? (I should never have told her my age!) The day started out bright and sunny, but just as we reached Wonder Pass it started to sleet. Big time. We turned and hurried back down the path, which was fast disappearing. Snow followed. The biggest flakes I’d ever seen. It was like slogging through a Christmas card, the only sound being the crunch of our boots as we raced back to our cabin. It snowed all afternoon as we huddled in a newly-built cook house with hikers all trying to keep warm while enjoying a touch of winter in August. The afternoon was spent in conversation with our new cabin mates, Chris (Canadian) and Ladislav Malek (Czech) from Thunder Bay. Needless to say, the topic of choice at every gathering was the upcoming election in the U.S. The rest of the world is as eager for a change in our country’s direction as we are.

We spent the next morning exploring around Lake Magog and enjoying the fresh winter wonderland that greeted us. When the helicopter arrived I sat in the back and took movies. I had ridden in the front next to the pilot on the way over, which was much more exciting. Try to get that seat if you can.

The scenery as we drove down the trans-Canada highway toward Lake Louise was breathtaking. In fact, all the scenery was. Therefore, like a good travel writer, I will not use that word again. Perhaps just to say sublime would sum it up: the towering mountains as far as you could see, the rock formations, and the bear bridges built across the highway, planted with trees and underbrush so the animals could cross. We traveled through a charming small town, Canmore, and picturesque Banff, where I had led workshops twenty years ago. For the rest of our trip we were in the province of Alberta.

After settling into our campsite at Lake Louise, with a view of Victoria Glacier and Temple Mountain, we headed for Moraine Lake in the valley of the ten peaks, named because its deep turquoise waters were ringed by ten majestic mountains. We walked way up where we could look down at the sparkling water and the intermittent waterfalls descending from cliff walls. This is one of the most beautiful lakes in the region. For me it had a richer feeling than the light blue-green, almost opaque color of Lake Louise. And I liked the simpler lodge rather than the rambling European-style hotels at the Lake Louise resort.

Early the next morning we drove to the entrance to Lake O’Hara, another magnificent glacial lake, and climbed into a bus, which took us to our campsite in the woods near the lake. Here we set up camp and spent three days climbing, taking advantage of the beautiful weather before the cold and snow arrived. Our first hike was to Opabin Plateau, where we ate lunch at Opabin Prospect (viewpoint), an outcropping with views of the valley, the streams, and the amazing monolithic stone formations everywhere. In the afternoon we scrambled up a 300 ft. pile of sand and scree to Sleeping Poet’s Tarn, an unusual “hanging tarn” high above the ledges. The rest of the day we walked around the Yukness Ledges to Lake Oesa, another jewel of a lake. In addition to the waterfalls and glacial streams were huge square boulders that looked as if they’d been sliced deliberately and tumbled onto the trail. We were surrounded by immense rock creations, as if some giant hand had thrown every possible geologic design in our way—piles of thin granite slabs stacked up like pancakes, smooth lavendar stones at the foot of etched columns, fanciful designs intersecting at ten-foot intervals on cliff walls. Upheaval was everywhere, the result of cataclysmic eruptions millennia ago. My imagination ran wild. And I was happy about the fact that I seemed to have conquered my fear of exposure on the high ledges. It must have been my trek in Ladakh that cured me.

After negotiating a difficult trail back to Lake O’Hara, we peeked into the fancy lodge and met a delightful couple, Shannon and Tom Palmer, whose parents had come from the U.S. and settled in Canada years ago when oil was discovered. This was my first election news in days and you can imagine the ensuing conversation.

Our next hike to MacArthur Lake was halted for a time by a lightening storm, during which we sat huddled under the trees until the rain stopped. It turned out to be a wet, but interesting trail leading to the mist-laden lake. We returned via the Elizabeth Parker Huts used by the Alpine Club of Canada.

The final hike came hours after an all-night snowstorm had covered the area. We waited until mid-morning, when the sun had melted most of the ice, and started up the Big Larch Trail to Devil’s Rockpile…which is exactly what it was! The views of Schaeffer Lake, Mary Lake, and O’Hara were excellent. After lunch we climbed a very steep and slippery trail to All Soul’s Prospect, one of the best views in the park. And ahead of us was Yukness, where we had climbed two days earlier and a slew of other peaks, one of which was Hungabee Mountain. We stayed there a long time, grooving on the views and basking in the sun. By the time we left, much of the snow had melted, but the trail down was still muddy and treacherous.

On our drive home we traveled through Rogers Pass to Revelstoke and on into Kamloops, where I had stayed in 1991 during a cross-Canada train ride. We lost over 6,000 ft. of altitude in a few hours, dropping into a river valley leading to the town.

Did we meet a grizzly? Well, we didn’t meet one, but we passed one not many feet away in Assiniboine. And, yes, we kept going. At O’Hara we came close to a white mountain goat and some friendly marmots and chippies, but all in all it was pretty tame.

Again, nothing surpasses the beauty and the peacefulness of this part of the world. I’ve gone into more detail, perhaps, than you wanted, but if you have a limited time in the Canadian Rockies and want some good pointers on a perfectly planned and executed trip (thanks to Jon), you have them. Be sure to write if you want any more information. This trip was unforgettable, but I still like reminding.

Also, there was a mix up with my server a few weeks ago, about which I knew nothing. After receiving letters from friends, who told me my website was down, I remedied the situation. Know that I always like to hear from you, especially if this sort of thing happens again.

I won’t talk about my theater addiction this time, but want to urge all of you to see Taxi to the Dark Side, an excellent documentary from Alex Gibney, who gave us the film: Independent Lens: Enron: The Smartest Guys in the Room. You may remember that excellent film. This one is even more harrowing and disturbing, dealing with the U.S. policy on torture since 911. I urge every American to see it.

THE RETURN OF THE NATIVE: back home at last, but not for long….

By Meg Noble Peterson

On August 17, 2008

In Uncategorized

No, I did not get swallowed by a big black bass in Lake Winnipesaukee, nor fall off my favorite cliffs in the White Mountains. But I did indulge my passion for swimming early in the morning, and enjoyed the solitary serenity of my New Hampshire woods for a few weeks and the less serene return of my children for a birthday celebration I will always remember. If I ever sort out the thousands of photos that digital cameras encourage you to take, I shall post a few on Facebook. They’re not all of exotic countries. Some are of the beautiful New England landscape, the sunsets behind Rattlesnake Mountain across the lake, and the back roads and little towns of both New Hampshire and Vermont, where I spent a most glorious July. Thanks to the Goodmans, who have a barn near Stratton Mountain in Vermont, I was able to work my way back to life in these Excited States in slow stages. And now I’ve taken possession of my home, again, just in time to leave it for the Northwest.

Those who think that all the good trekking is overseas need to visit the great Northwest…the Cascades and the Olympics, where you can find snow even in July and come upon challenging blow-downs at the most inopportune times. They don’t believe in clearing the trails in the backwoods, but leave the old trees to rot and refurbish the forest. I always think of those forests as New Hampshire with hormones. The trees are so grand and the woods so deep and dark and mysterious. I could wander through them for days.

This year my climbing buddy from the Himalayas, Jon Pollack, and I won’t be going to Rainier, but after a visit on Whidbey Island with my daughter, Cary, will do a three-day backpack in the Olympics before heading for British Columbia, the Assiniboine Mountains, Banff, Lake Louise, and Lake O’Hara. I’ve visited this part of Canada, but never camped by the lakes or climbed on the surrounding trails. My son, Christopher, told me that he felt that Lake O’Hara was the most exquisite lake on the face of the earth.

I try to visit the Seattle area once a year to get my Pacific fix and see old friends. Frequent flyer miles make it possible. But even so, because of high gas prices and the need to helicopter into the Assiniboines, this trip may cost me more than my recent seven weeks in Asia. Hard to believe, eh? But you know me. Traveling off the beaten track is my specialty. The U.S. and Europe are fast becoming too expensive for this ancient wanderer.

RETURN TO THE NEW HAMPSHIRE WOODS….

By Meg Noble Peterson

On July 4, 2008

In Uncategorized

It’s been exactly two weeks since my beloved Dawa greeted me at breakfast
in the Goba Guest House with a pale yellow kata and a farewell
breakfast–with Grandma and the whole family in attendance. I was sad to
leave after six glorious weeks, but eager to have at least a glimpse of
exotic Kashmir, a place that has eluded me twice. I had been warned
about the pressure exerted by Kashmiri tradespeople, and the vast
difference between the Ladakhi and Kashmiri psyche and modus operandi,
and I found this true, starting with the wild jeep ride in the Karakoram
Mountains over the Zoji La (pass), the most dangerous of all passes so
far. I know–I say that every time, but this time was so perilous that I
promised God total fidelity for the rest of my life. Good works, you
name it, I’m your humble servant!

This was not the jeep I had been promised, but one driven by a cowboy
who picked up six other men, among them two Kashmiri policemen working
in Leh. One looked like Omar Sharif and the other like John Travolta. An
interesting pair. I was crushed in one corner by one of the amorous
policemen, who was intent on “making me REALLY happy” (It never changes
in India!), and in my attempt to get away, I could see down every abyss
and yawning thousand-foot chasm as the jeep bumped and twisted over
roads, some of which were little more than stream beds. And, as with so
many roads I traveled, they were “under construction” (for the
foreseeable future). At 3 AM the driver, having had a few drinks when we
stopped for rice and dal, nearly hit a rock wall (better than going over
the cliff, I figured), and decided it would be better to transfer the
driving job to a sleeping comrade in the back. He, too, had imbibed, but
at least gotten some sleep. Add to this the blaring of Hindi music at
high decibels for 15 hours and you have a new definition of living hell!

At 9 AM, when I reached the Green Valley House Boats on Lake Nageen in
Srinagar, I fell onto a bed and didn’t awaken until mid-afternoon.
Srinagar is famous for elaborate houseboats fitted with front porches
adorned with carved latticework, dining rooms carpeted in orientals, and
brocaded couches and chairs for lounging. I sat on the front porch
facing the mountains. Their image was silhouetted in the calm lake as
were the many other houseboats lining the shore. Colorful shikaras
(boats with canopies and four comfortable seats for the tourists)
floated by, paddled by a skinny man wielding a heart-shaped paddle. Many
other boats stopped, hoping to sell their wares by walking up a ladder
and displaying them in front of me on the porch. I declined and just
watched the passing parade–the kingfishers perched on water lilies, and
the pigeons, hawks, and eagles circling. How I cherished the peace and
quiet after the previous night’s ride.

My host, Maqsood Madarie, very graciously took me to his home for dinner
to meet his extended family. I bonded with his charming 15-year-old son,
Aamir, who asked me many questions about my religion and what I knew
about his Muslim faith. We discussed the status of women (burkhas, which
his mother wore), and politics in the U.S. I was amazed at his knowledge
of our government and his understanding of world politics. I found this
true of the young children I talked with over the next few days. I was
also in awe of the number of languages and courses they studied in
school. They were eager, of course, to practice English with me and
spoke better than their parents.

Driving in Srinagar is like being in the center of a whirling dervish!
As in Ladakh, no seatbelts are used, and there are no traffic lights.
Whoever is the boldest gets to enter a traffic circle (roundabout)
first. Near misses are the name of the game–and a game it is! Nobody
worries about passing on curves and is deft at swerving to miss cows and
garbage and pedestrians. There simply doesn’t seem to be a concept of
right-of-way. Add to this the fact that every other driver is talking on
a cell phone, and you have a recipe for disaster. I’ll never complain
about Delhi, again!

On my marathon flight home, which started early in the morning from
Srinagar, with the most thorough examination of luggage and person I’ve
ever endured, and included a twelve-hour wait in the Delhi airport, I
found myself, once again, drawn to the children of all ages that were
probably as curious about me as I was about them. And I noted how
patient they were during those long waits. They asked all kinds of
questions from “What is your favorite team (football/soccer)?” to “Do
you like Beckham? He’s in the U.S. now” to “Do they teach Japanese in
your schools?” and “Are you glad that George Bush will be gone next
year?” You can cover a lot of territory in twelve hours and I was ready
to sleep by the time we took off at 12:15 AM.

Of all the wonderful experiences I had in Ladakh, one of the most
poignant was a gift I received from the two young men at the internet
cafe in Leh. They bought me a foot-tall carved image of one of the eight
auspicious Buddhist symbols, mounted on a stand and all nicely wrapped
in lavender paper. On the back they had written: to Mrs. Meg Noble
Peterson of the United States for the remembrance of summer 2008 in
Ladakh, from Stanzin Rabgyas and Lobzang Otzer of the Get Connected
Cyber Cafe in Leh, Ladakh. We pray for your health.

I hope before long to have some photos mounted on Facebook of these
friends and others I was so fortunate to meet during my seven-week
sojourn. But that won’t be before September, after my three weeks here
in New Hampshire, my big birthday bash with my children, cousins and
assorted relatives, and my visit to Seattle, Whidbey Island, and the
Assiniboine Mountains of British Columbia. I’ll close this chapter by
urging you to visit this lovely area of India, and when you arrive, pick
up the excellent brochure at the airport entitled Mindful Travel in
Ladakh. It’s put out by the International Society for Ecology and
Culture, part of The Ladakh Project I mentioned earlier. It will give
visitors valuable information to help them understand Ladakhi traditions
and common etiquette, and avoid misunderstandings by increasing cultural
sensitivity.

LAST DAYS IN LEH

By Meg Noble Peterson

On June 13, 2008

In Uncategorized

Any of you who complain about the slowness of your internet connection should come here and learn what slow really is! Last night, after two days of not being able to get on line at my favorite internet cafe, I wrote a long blog at a competitors, only to have it lost in cyberspace in an instant. So count your blessings. But I am also aware that the Himalayan and Krakoram mountain ranges, to name only two, make it difficult to reach the outside world. If you’re going to be surrounded by such beauty, you sometimes have to pay the price! So, too, when it comes to international calls. James was unable to get on a plane to Delhi, along with hundreds of other stranded tourists, because of the weather, and you cannot imagine what he went through trying to change his Delhi-NYC ticket. This, by the way, is why I’m leaving for Srinigar tomorrow or Sunday, so I can be sure of getting to Delhi to catch my Newark flight, and see my daughters and two eldest grandchildren before they leave for India. Besides, I’ve wanted to go to Kashmir for years!

I forgot to mention when I wrote about my birthday that Stanzin made special veggie and paneer (a type of solid cottage cheese that I love) momos, because he knew we were tired of rice. It was a superb meal! We also passed around a little chung to add to the festivities.

On June 4th, which I always remember as my parents’ wedding anniversary, we started with our usual breakfast of tea, curd (excellent homemade yogurt), and chapattis with butter and apricot or mango jam. I needed the energy for the last day of climbing, first down into the rocky valley, then up a cliff with narrow switchbacks to the top of Bong Bong Chan La, its prayer flags fluttering encouragingly. Here it turned cold with snow flurries, but soon warmed up as we climbed down to Ang village. We had negotiated the pass in record time, so after stopping for the usual tea and soup, decided to spend the next hour exploring the area all the way to the small town of Temisgam.

The streams were very full because of the melting glaciers, and were expertly directed into the fields to irrigate the recently planted crops. We were absorbing the life of the farmer in action. The cows wandered freely in search of vegetation, and large stone houses, whitewashed over cement or clay, commanded the landscape.

Phunchog finally arrived in his van and we headed for Thekchan Chosling, a woman’s nunnery and school. I was especially impressed with the primary teacher, educated in Manali and Leh, who was in charge of five grades and twenty classes a day. She taught them all together at various levels–Hindi, English, Tibetan, and Math. History and social studies would be added later. You couldn’t have found a more dedicated, enthusiastic advocate for the young nuns. We arrived during recess and enjoyed a lively game of cricket as well as good old-fashioned jumping rope like what I did as a girl. The teacher said she didn’t really know the cricket rules, since they change every year, but she really enjoyed seeing the girls have so much fun.

After visiting another temple and palace nearby, we headed up a steep mountain road, passing the Indus River, which flowed rapidly way down in a gorge on its way to Pakistan, and delighting in the unusual rock formations on both sides. Just before arriving at Lamayuru Monastery, we passed through a section called “moonlands,” which can be seen glowing on a moonlit night.

The monastery is one of the most striking in Ladakh, positioned on top of an eroded crag, complete with rock pinnacles and caves. It stands over the small village below and is probably the oldest site, having been declared a holy place in the 16th century. It now belongs to the Kagypa sect.

After visiting a couple of chapels, we decided to stay overnight, and with the help of Stanzin and his friends, got a reasonable pre-tourist rate for a huge room and hot showers. And the restaurant, run by Nepalis, offered us spring rolls and garlic/spinach soup, a real treat. No rice!

The last monastery, Alchi, was really special. Known for its authentic old wall paintings, it’s the only monastery situated in a valley, and quite different from any other we’d seen. Being in the valley may be the reason that it is so well-preserved and was never ransacked or destroyed. We visited several very old chapels with diminutive carved doorways and extensive small repetitive wall paintings. It was dark inside and no photos were allowed, with or without a flash. There were also elaborate sculptures and a giant thangka rolled up and ready for the next festival day.

This chosker, as the religious enclave is called, is one of the most important cultural sites in Ladakh. Build in the 11th century, it’s a treasure trove of early Buddhist art in the Kashmiri tradition, quite unlike other monasteries we had seen.

After lunch, and a tour of the new tenting facilities with another one of Stanzin’s friends, we headed home. Upon arrival we noticed a great many more tourists in Leh, and a plethora of new shops that had been completed in the five short days we’d been gone. I’ve never seen such rapid construction, most of which was done by hand. We also discovered an excellent new restaurant, The World Garden Cafe.

For the past few days James and I have discovered several new areas of Ladakh, the latest being the Tso Moriri area (Tso means lake), reached by following the Indus River until Mhae, then picking up various tributaries and climbing through rock canyons to 15,000 ft. There is no way to capture the vastness of the unfolding mountains and cliffs, but the ride was as scary as any I’ve already reported. It’s hard to get used to narrow roads where meeting oncoming traffic means passing on curves and near edges of ravines that reach hundreds of feet below.

Unfortunately, we did not know that there had been violent wind storms that heaped sand over the roads, making it impossible for our small van to pass. We got as far as Kiagar Tso, a beautiful aqua salt lake, and, after pushing the car for an hour, decided it would never get through and we’d better tent in a pasture nearby. It was, indeed, an adventure! But also a big disappointment. We had so wanted to see Lake Moriri!

Karin, James, and I squeezed into a small tent after having a dinner cooked by James–rice and canned veggies, the remainder of which we ate for breakfast. No comment. Oh, yes, we also had two cantaloupes of questionable quality. We were a bit short on water and, of course, couldn’t use the lake water, so found a small stream on a high slope, where we could use James’ purifier to advantage.

Early the next morning we were assured by our driver that TsoMoriri was only about 7 kilometers away. Yeah, right! An easy walk, uphill in the broiling sun. Three hours later, having stopped a returning jeep, we were told it was about 30 kilometers more, so we turned back, walking past several nomad enclaves, and staggering through the sand to the van. I couldn’t understand why I was so tired, but climbing dehydrated at 15,000 ft. was, ultimately, the reason. Couldn’t have been that birthday.

Despite our disappointment we enjoyed the scenic beauty of the trip and were glad that the little van made it over the steep passes to Leh.

Two days ago was a day of bus riding, loud music, and two more phenomenal monasteries. We reached Shey Palace first, the old capital and home of the kings of Ladakh before the new capital was established in Leh. It sits in a strategic position on a spur jutting into the Indus Valley. The main temple contains a large Buddha statue sculpted by Nepalese craftsmen. In the courtyard there’s an impressive gold-topped stupa and on the top of the palace, reached by some very dilapidated steps, are excellent views of Stok and Spituk, as well as hundreds of stupas on the desert to the north-east. At the bottom by the road, from where we started a four kilometer walk through the field to Thiksey, were large ponds full of ducks, swans, and those large-mouthed carp I had seen last year at Tso Pema.

The walk to Thiksey monastery was very hot, but we passed an interesting mani wall as big as any I’ve ever seen. Pastures full of grazing horses and cattle, and rock walls stretched for miles on either side of the road. I was actually glad to face the hundreds of steps up to the monastery so as to get into a chapel and out of the sun! It was also nice to meet the assistant lama, again, and have him remember me as “one of the courageous ones” who actually walked up the stairs. There were quite a few tourist groups who had come in cars.

We had planned to see the huge sand mandala that was being constructed in the main temple, but discovered to our dismay that it was to be unveiled the next day at an all-day puja. What a disappointment! Still, it was nice to have lunch with Mark Manning and catch up on his teaching and meditation practice. If I have time, I will return to view the completed mandala. The bus ride back was long and noisy and very local. I liked it. James wasn’t that enthusiastic.

That evening we celebrated James’ final Ladakhi meal at Sheldon Green Restaurant, another open-air eatery we enjoy. We’ve added a few new restaurants to our list, including Flambee, The Himalayan Cafe, Zen Garden, and The Tibetan Kitchen (superb). There are also numerous fine coffee and espresso shops where you can sit and relax during the day. And don’t forget to try chai, the milk tea of choice in Ladakh. I’m becoming quite addicted.

I forgot to mention Choglamsar, a small Tibetan refugee village near Shey, where the Mahabodhi Meditation Center is located. Karen Skogstad will be living there this summer and teaching yoga. Across the main road in a field is the beautiful temporary residence where the Dalai Lama will stay when he visits this summer, and where the Central Institute of Buddhist Studies is based. All the stupas are being repainted in anticipation of his coming. In fact, we’ve noticed a great deal of painting and refurbishing going on all around Leh.

I’m convinced, as I see the tourists pour into Leh, that I planned my trip perfectly. And the beauty of this kind of travel, where you come to a place and stay for seven weeks, is that you get to know the people and observe how they live day-to-day. They greet you like a family member when you return from a trek or a trip. They talk to you about the dzos that Dawa’s husband just walked up to the high mountains and freed for the winter, knowing that they will return on their own in late September. They show you how to make chapattis, Tibetan bread, and tsampa (from their own barley flour). They let you try on their wonderful Ladakhi clothes and even help you buy them. And you are a part of the evening meditation, which, even though you don’t know the language, is calming to you as well. I spent a long time listening to Dawa and her children talk about the months of bitter cold winter endured by these people. And the hardships and the joys and the challenges of living in a place that is fairly isolated for six months of the year. How do you keep warm? How do you get water when the pipes are drained so they won’t burst? The Goba family has a type of plastic greenhouse that heats up during the day, so they can shower and wash. School is out from December to March. What activities do they engage in? All of this is fascinating and so new to me.

This is a perfect country for solar heating, and it’s unfortunate that the Indian government would rather collect monthly payments for hydroelectric generated energy than encourage the one-time expenditure of solar panels. Expensive, to be sure, but reliable. And it will give heat and light all year long.

Tomorrow I leave my new “family” and drive to Srinigar, Kashmir. I plan to stay on a houseboat, but will probably not write about it until I return home.

I must say, before I close, that I have been helped, immeasurably, by the superb and very computer-literate staff of my favorite internet cafe, Get Connected Travel and Cyber Cafe near the SBI in the Main Market. It’s always packed because these guys know their stuff! They even made me two CD’s of Ladakhi classical and pop music as a farewell gift. And just gave me chai. How about that? Look them up if you’re ever in Leh.

TREKS AND MONASTERIES

By Meg Noble Peterson

On June 10, 2008

In Uncategorized

James and I took the “Sham” route, starting on May 31st, and spent five days exploring the countryside, climbing over four high passes, and encountering a variety of weather–from baking in the endless sun to snow-flurries on top of Mabtak La (also called Bong Bong Chan La) the last day. La, of course, means Pass, and we always were greeted with dozens of prayer flags and white katas to celebrate our accomplishment.

As with this and other trips I’ve taken in Ladakh, I have never been anywhere that can boast of more varied scenery or as many different rock formations crammed into a small area–small compared to the vast spaces we Americans are used to in the western U.S. One moment you’re looking at shale and splintering rock that was at the bottom of the ocean 50 milion years ago, and a few meters later you’re gazing at convoluted sandstone moonscapes reaching hundreds of feet into the river valley, hanging rocks resembling Inca statures, or swirling lava with orange striations. Sand flows between shiny coal-black outcroppings or purple and green folds bereft of any vegetation, an ever-changing pattern of stone that amazes and delights.

The chanting began, and then the drums started beating very low at 5 AM on the day our big adventure began. Stanzin Lhawang, our friend and guide ([email protected]) picked us up in a van, driven by Phunchog, a cheerfull Ladakhi, who drove us, first, to the Hindu Temple, Gurdwara Sri Pather Sahi Ji, dating from 1517, and then delivered us to Liker, site of the famous Liker Monastery at 11,000 ft. The original structure was built in 1065, but later destroyed by fire and rebuilt in the 15th century. Like so many monasteries in Ladakh, it has the flavor and beauty of the Potala Palace in Lhasa, Tibet.

We stayed at a lovely hotel, The Lhukhil, and since we were the first guests of the season, enjoyed luxury at reasonable rates. After this is would be homestays, where we lived in the homes of Ladakhi farm families in small villages along the trekking route.

The first afternoon we took a strenuous walk to the monastery high on the hill. I felt as if I were bushwacking most of the way up and could only sympathize with the monks who did the climb frequently. Stanzin’s great uncle, a monk, had just died, so his family was gathered there and a special puja was being offered. We sat in the chapel with the monks, listening to the chanting, the long, mournful horns being blown, and the two large drums as they accented the end of each chant. As is customary, chai, or sweet milk tea, was served.

That evening I spent talking with a ten-year-old and her cousins, who were eager to speak English and sing songs, which I recorded and played back. We had a lovely time and would meet the next morning at breakfast to practice reading some of the stories they had written in their notebooks. I was amazed at their proficiency and at the complicated stories they were given. And the handwriting was as good as any I’ve seen in a U.S. primary school.

I spent the next few days climbing over trails slow as a tortoise, sliding down steep scree paths and walking with terror along high cliffs. I felt that I was beginning to get over my fear of “exposure,” which had dogged me in the Himalayas, but, mostly, I just crept ahead, knowing that one false step would mean curtains. I was not ready for any curtain that wasn’t on a Broadway stage!

We reached the small town of Yangthang at 3 PM and I clambored up side alleys until I met the donkey driver, Stobden, who led me to the Norboo Guest House, where we would stay for two days. Our room was ample, but the facilities were Ladakhi, which gave us an authentic taste of native culture. I actually enjoyed the bath room, which consisted of a large bucket in which you could wash, and even soak your feet, plus basins for such activities as brushing your teeth. When you finished you simply poured everything down a drain in the corner. The toilet (a separate room) was a rectangular hole with dirt and ashes around it. And, of course, a shovel handy.

The community had about fourteen families, and we witnessed a type of town council meeting across the alley from our room. The Indian government was about to do something the citizens did not like, and we would hear about it at dinner. Coincidentally, this is the family of another Stanzin, one of the young men at the internet cafe, with whom I had become friendly, and who was overjoyed when we told him about eating and talking with his family. We also took pictures which he eagerly downloaded.

My last day of youth before my birthday was spent climbing to the Rizong (Rizdong) Monastery, another Potala-like structure built into a hill, with a large school at the base for young monks. There was a great deal of construction going on and the paths to the buildings were slippery and steep. But I enjoyed the labyrinth of tunnels and alcoves secreted in the upper stories. I even got lost on one of the roofs trying to find a passable stairway down. Stanzin, who has relatives all over Ladakh, found that one of his cousins was in charge of the kitchen, so we were given a lunch of rice and dahl that sustained us on our way back to Yangthang. At one point we stopped at a lush grove of apricot trees (not yet ripe) by a rushing stream. The long grasses that I had so liked in the Numbra Valley were lining the stream like the hair of a shaggy yak.

At dinner there was grandpa, turning his prayer wheel and chanting, and several other members of the family, including a three-month old baby. After the meal we all took turns churning butter. I have the photos to prove it!

I shall end with June 3rd, my birthday. On this day we headed up the Dsermangchan La, meaning thorny path, at 11,500 ft. By noon we were in the village of Hemis Shukpachan. I had never seen so many stones in my life! Evidently this is the way all the fields had looked at one time. There were stone walls and stupas everywhere, and a small monastery on the hill. We visited a primary school in the afternoon, and James became embroiled in a fast game of frisbie with the youngsters.

This time we stayed at the Diskit Guest House, and got to know the family during long conversations in the evening. In communities like this there are always conflicts between parents, who educate their children, but then want them to stay home and continue the family tradition, and the children, who are also drawn to the family, but have professional lives calling them.

I was resting in the late afternoon, when Stobden burst in and indicated that I was wanted by the stream down below. There were James and several new friends “celebrating” MY birthday with one bottle of beer cooling in the stream. But what about ME? The bottle was passed around and, suddenly, out of nowhere appeared six more Ladakhis, even a doctor, who seemed impressed that I had lived so long. Hugs all around and another bottle of beer. The brand was fitting…Grandfather’s. How can you not be happy with so many exhuberant, happy males congratulating you?

James and I are heading for Hemis Monastery and Shey Palace tomorrow, so I shall finish relating the trek and an exciting, but disastrous trip to Tso Moriri on the next blog. Don’t want to make the postings too long, do I?

One last note: I’ve mentioned several times that the homes here have very low doors and the monasteries are even lower. There are many theories about this and perhaps you can add a couple more. First, it’s very cold here in the winter, so you want to conserve heat by having smaller openings and higher sills. Or, as one young lady told me, the low doors keep the ghosts out, because ghosts can’t bend down. Hmmm, that seemed a bit far-fetched. But the last one is that you have to bow down, so you show respect for those in the room you are entering. I like that the best!

I’m off to absorb more of the perfect sun that shines every day, all day in this beautiful country.

OLD LEH, FAMILY HOMES, AND A SUMMER BLIZZARD….

By Meg Noble Peterson

On May 31, 2008

In Ladakh

This has been a whirlwind week! I visited the Spituk Monastery, taking a local bus, which dropped me off in a lonely area at the foot of a cliff. I took a long walk up a winding road to this formidable monastery perched on yet another hill and overlooking the Indus Valley. (I don’t know how they build these multi-storied edifices in such precarious places). It was built in the 15th century on the site of an 11th century temple. Unfortunately, nobody seemed to be there, so I missed the icons, thangkas, antique arms, and ancient masks, but that didn’t keep me from wandering around old hallways, up massive stone stairways, and into courtyards where the main chapels were locked. It was fun, however, to see the Hindu Mahakali Temple that was several hundred feet above the monastery, containing the shrine of Vajnabhairava. There were dozens of bottles of oil in the entry (for lamps, no doubt), and two massive figures behind the altar that had multiple arms and legs. The masks on the wall were ferocious. I decided to behave myself from now on!

It was a mini-adventure getting home, since I was waiting for the bus where it dropped me off in the parched desert, until two workmen informed me that the bus stopped on a different road from the one where it dropped me off. People are so nice when they see a foreigner broiling in the sun and looking hopeless. Julley! Julley! OK, OK, they reply. laughing.

I bumped into Karin and Marco (from our Nubra Valley trip) on the way home and returned to a new favorite restaurant in the middle of town, Summer Harvest, for a farewell meal with them. We even shared a light Indian beer, my first alcohol in Ladakh, which was so weak it didn’t even affect my elbows. Later on we enjoyed walking the almost abandoned streets back to Changspa, occasionally using my headlamp, which, Saints Preserve Us, I haven’t yet lost.

Planting season is still in full sway here in Changspa, and every morning Aunt Sonam and Grandma are out in the fields planting onions and weeding the crops. Dawa says that they have enough onions from last year to feed the whole neighborhood, but Grandma insists on planting more. She can’t wait to get her hands in the dirt and works tirelessly until dusk. I love to see her, after a day’s work, turning her prayer wheel slowly and chanting from the ancient script, which is wrapped in cloth in the family room and only used for these occasions. This kind of life is what keeps these older people vital and feeling useful. They are needed and they have their specific roll in the family. And they are definitely revered. Now the barley has been sown and the irrigation begins. It’s such a beautiful sight to see the rows of freshly turned earth and the grid of squares made of dirt ridges around each different vegetable. A riot of green, gold, and brown with flowering trees and tall thin poplars around the edge. High mud-brick walls, and that sun every day–cold in the morning, hot at noon, and brisk at sunset.

James Wilson finally arrived on the 26th and we have done non-stop exploring ever since. I thought I had seen it all, but hadn’t gone on the Heritage Walk, or past Leh Palace up the hill above Leh to the Tsemo Tower and Chapel. I vowed I would NOT climb up to the Palace, again, from the inimitable back alleys, but this time we explored around it to the small stupa, and went up a steep dirt path to the tower high above. It was dizzying for me, for I’m not a big fan of exposure, but James loves to goad me on and especially if the walk along the cliff is narrow. Do all men thrive on scaring women? Well, I figure that if you don’t keep pushing yourself and let fear drive you, you might as well sit in the rocking chair and be done with it. Since I don’t have a rocking chair, I elect to push the limits. Mine, at least.

Nobody would believe what lies behind the small mosque in the center of Leh. Our wanderings led through a labyrinth of streets, part of the old city wall in the bread-making district, through tunnels of stone and a series of walkways, wooded paths, and old farms around a rushing stream that can only be forded by hopping from stone to stone. (The bridge washed out and hasn’t been replaced.) There were houses built in high places where you couldn’t imagine anyone getting to them, and new guest houses going up near them. We watched a chapatti maker, something I have never done, as he slapped the flattened and scored dough onto the sides of a round sunken oven, removing it when it started to crinkle and get brown. How he kept from burning his hand was amazing. And so was the chapatti we bought.

One afternoon we had a special treat. Rinchin, the eldest daughter at the Goba, and her sister, Lazes, took us to her old family home, which her great grandfather had built years ago. He was a very respected member of the community–a hunter, a farmer, and the father of seven children. This is where Great Aunt Sonam (only 67) still lives in a single room. We found the stone house off an alley not far from the present guest house, and headed up dark, narrow steps to explore the small rooms and hear the history of the family. It was fascinating, as were the special murals on the wall, each with its own story, which Rinchin has promised to tell me. There was such delight as the two girls explored the roof with its homemade prayer wheels, showed us the old kitchen with utensils still in place and real stone pots piled high, the tool room, and a living/sleeping area she had visited so often as a child and listened to the stories of her elders. They reminisced about running from roof to roof as children. That’s how close together the houses were. There were several wooden pillars, some finely decorated, that divided the sleeping from the living area. Rinchin tried on old traditional hats, showed us a sacred cock’s egg wrapped in tissue paper, and rummaged through two trunks made of yak skin and wood. And one of leopard skin. This is the experience every child has when going to “Grandma’s attic,” and we were thrilled to be a part of it. At 6 Auntie returned and insisted on making us tea, a process that is long and meticulous–boiling this and boiling that and straining the leaves–but results in the best milk tea I’ve ever had. These are the moments that make Ladakh live for me. It has such a rich culture and history and I’ve been blessed with finding such warm, open people willing to share it with me.

At the last minute I decided to return for two days to the Nubra Valley with James, Karin Skogstad, and a new friend from Holland, Anna Hendrix, an interesting young doctor with whom we’d had many conversations at the Goba. This seemed a bit crazy, but I found that seeing this natural wonder for the second time gave me another perspective on it. I hadn’t noticed the wild variety of carved sand dunes before, or the marmots or pashmina goats. And the wild roses and other foliage were now in full bloom. The first ride over the Khardung La at 18,380 ft. was in sunshine and, although cold, nothing like the second day when we returned in a white out, which turned into a blizzard at the pass. Nobody was there. The military station seemed locked up and there wasn’t a single car in sight. But it was quite an adventure, with so many trucks on the road, lugging crates of produce and trying to pass on the narrow, high roads. During the storm, two trucks got locked together and it took several tries to get them unhooked without sending one of them into the valley 1,000 ft. below. The banks of snow and ice were much higher than two weeks ago, and the road seemed to have more potholes filled with water and ice. It was exciting to go from one type of landscape to another and one temperature to another. We explored another couple of remote stupas as well as Disket and Hunder monasteries. And we did more walking around the guest house. In the morning I came upon a small two-humped camel, running in front of a school bus, that mercifully pulled over. The little fellow stopped to feed on a tree, and along came the camel driver with three adult camels. I said, “I think you’ve lost a camel.” He shook his head. “He’ll come along.” And sure enough, as the driver went further away, the little guy took off, legs splaying, huge feet beating the dust, until he had caught up. The driver offered me a short ride, which I took, and which I feel I don’t need to do again. Two humps. Now, that’s an experience!

James and I will be leaving tomorrow for five days of trekking, starting at Likir Monastery and ending at the famous Alchi and Lamayuru monasteries. We’ll be going with Stanzin Lhawang and even have two donkeys to carry our “stuff,” so unlike my other treks where we had porters. During this time I shall celebrate my birthday. You will get a full report!

Monasteries, Schools and Heavenly Sunshine

By Meg Noble Peterson

On May 23, 2008

In Ladakh

Those of you who know me will remember how I’ve complained over the years about the wall-to-wall music in buses and jeeps in Asia. Well, nothing is permanent, as the Buddhists say, and, indeed, I have changed. I’m actually enjoying the Ladakhi and Hindi music, and find it adds to the atmosphere of collegiality found in most buses. Now I’m looking for a tape to bring home.

I also want to recommend the Ladakh Tour Escort (www.escortladakh.com), a group of helpful fellows who planned my sojourns to Tso Pangong and the Nubra Valley. It was Ajaz Ahmad who introduced us. I kidded them about the name escort and how one escort service brought down a New York governor. They laughed and said I wasn’t the first to mention it. There are dozens of such agencies in Leh, and it’s nice to find a reliable one with safe drivers and reasonable rates.

Karin Skogstad, a new friend, who is a professional photographer and yoga instructor, went with me to Thiksey Monastery on the local bus. As we reached the outskirts of Leh what did we see? A golf course…totally of sand. Now I wonder what sand traps look like on that course! But I guess if you’re an avid golfer you’ll play on anything.

We arrived at the foot of the monastery by noon, and started up the never-ending stone step switchbacks to reach the top…twelve-stories high. The monastery resembles the Potala in Lhasa and is a patchwork of buildings perched dramatically on the side of a steep hill. It was founded in 1430 and is the principal monastery of the Gelugpa Tibetan Buddhist tradition in Ladakh. The ceremonies and chanting are all in Tibetan. At the summit of the hill is the private residence of the head lama, whose 65th birthday was celebrated the next day at two long life pujas (we only attended the first). Below extend twelve levels of buildings, including ten temples, chapels, and monks’ accommodations. There is also a restaurant, gift shop, excellent museum, and new guest rooms with balconies (at which Karin and I stayed). We also visited the school for young monks where our friend, Mark Manning teaches. What fun it was to watch him play games with his small charges as he taught the past and present tense. These were eager little fellows and were thoroughly enjoying their lessons. Mark taught last year in Chang Mai, Thailand, and may stay here for six months, or until the winter makes school impossible. Further on, at the Champakang Temple, is the famous three-story statue of Maitreya. It’s the largest Buddhist figure in Ladakh and the Dalai Lama consecrated it during a visit to the monastery in 1980. I found this a very beautiful and welcoming place.

We roamed around, in and out of beautiful temples, and sat for awhile with one monk, who was wrapping a metal piece with white cotton string to make a 25-day butter lamp. By 6:30 we were ready to eat the butter lamp, so met Mark at the restaurant and had a heavy conversation about Buddhism for two hours. He recommended a small book to help clarify the complicated philosophy, and I’m enjoying it. What Makes You Not a Buddhist, by Dzongsar Tamyang Khyentse, who also wrote and directed the films The Cup and Travellers and Magicians.

The weather was cold and overcast, but the full moon still shone through. We lingered on our balcony, enveloped in a tranquility which is so often eludes us in our “busy” lives.

At 6:30 AM the puja began. Gongs, low horns blowing, young monks (starting at age 9) chanting, incense burning. Soon they filed in and sat cross-legged at low benches covered with colorful Tibetan rugs, with a wide railing in front of them where food was put. A very tall, imposing monk had draped himself in a yellow cape, and walked around, now and then tapping one of the youngsters, as if to say, I am the disciplinarian and you’d better behave.

This was an especially long celebration in honor of the head lama’s birthday. We sat in the back with Mark, getting into the rhythm of the drumbeats and the chants. I had my digital recorder on, held in the palm of my hand. Our concentration was interrupted, however, by a tourist with a large camera and an even larger lens. We had vowed not to take pictures, for it was annoying to everyone, especialy the young monks, who hid their heads with embarrassment. Mark suggested, later, that I do a photo piece showing obnoxious tourists thrusting their cameras into the faces of terrified little monks. I might just do it. I never take a photo without asking permission.

At intervals during the puja, tea was served and tsampa distributed, which was mixed with the butter tea. Then quiet would ensue. The young monks did all the pouring and cleaning up, and as we left they were carrying large buckets of barley, veggie, and noodle soup up the stairs to the chapel. We wished we’d stayed, but wanted to get back to Leh for the Saga Dawa Festival, a celebration I had enjoyed with Cary at the foot of Mt. Kailash in Tibet four years ago.

Again, the bus was crowded, and a diminutive nun insisted on putting Karin’s lage pack on her lap. She could hardly peer over it!

By the time I had dropped my gear at the guest house and huffed and puffed up the ten thousand stone steps (well, actually 554) to the Shanti Supa above Leh, the Saga Dawa was over. I had to be content with Dawa’s description of the floats and the hundreds of people who enjoyed the raising of the flag pole and the eating of mimosas and other goodies.

When I came off the mountain, I ran into Grandma, who was standing in a deep, grave-like hole, digging up last year’s potatoes. They had been buried for the winter, and were now being bagged in burlap and sold to restaurants in the area. She is a beautiful, very dark-skinned seventy-year-old lady, who does a lot of the gardening and sits at dinner, calmly spinning her prayer wheel and chanting softly. We’ve become great pals!

Dawa’s eldest daughter, Rinchen, showed me another huge hole, where giant radishes, as big as parsnips, had been buried. She cut one to show me how fresh and juicy it still was. She also suggested that I do my wash in their new Samsung washing machine, located in the shed. Now that was an experience! First you put the water in by hose, then you set the timer. After 15 minutes you reset it to spin. Out comes the water all over the cement floor. After that the clothes are put into the spin side for further wringing. I think it takes less trime by hand, but enjoyed the process with Rinchin.

I love to listen to the Ladakhi women speak. They have a high-pitched, excited tone, which also comes across in their singing. There seems to be an underlay of joy and good humor running through their conversation. And you are always greeted by a wide smile and a lilting Julley! Julley! from every passerby. It means hello, goodbye, and thank you. Now I call that an economy of words.

Yesterday the sun rose early and stayed bright all day. I walked to the 8 AM school bus, leaving Leh for Stok and the Siddhartha School. We took a different route from the one I had become familiar with, and I thoroughly enjoyed the ride, sitting next to one of the teachers as the bus became fuller and fuller. I like the idea of pupils and teachers on the same bus. They care for the little ones and make it quite a social occasion.

The acting principal, Ugyen Tsering, a Tibetan who lives in a refugee camp in the valley, met me, throwing a kata around my neck. The children, all in uniform, sat down in front of a large outdoor stage. This is desert country, so there was no grass, just dust. First they sang, then several students performed songs, or recited poetry. Everything was very orderly as they walked to their various classes. The school goes to level ten, and Ugyen took me to several classrooms. In two of them they were studying the causes of World War II and in another they were discussing the problems of global warming and how Ladakh could adjust its lifestyle to solve such problems. They already use solar heating panels extensively, because of the amount of sun, but they haven’t dealt with the terrible pollution from the cars and trucks, the garbage caused by plastic, or the lack of water. I was greeted in each room by polite children standing up and saying,”Good morning to you, Madam.” I helped with English pronounciation, which I thought was already extremely good, and took one class, where I would read and discuss and paragraph and the children would then take turns reading. I really enjoyed the English teacher, who told me that he had written several short stories and was translating them into English. He promised to send them to me. I also asked several people why everything was in English…the office sign, the teachers’ room, all the instructions. The answer was that Ladakh was a small country and English was the international language. If they were to succeed in the global economy, especially tourism, they needed English. This, of course, means that their economy is now becoming almost totally money-based, and they are subject to the vagaries of international monetary trends. But it looks as if this is the direction they are taking. I was also told that they have various school programs, one of which is debating, both Buddhist and western-style. This intrigued me, especially when I was told that the next subject would be: A woman’s place is in the kitchen. How I’d like to hear that one! These children are adorable and amazing. Can you believe that they not only speak their own language and Tibetan, but also Hindi and English. Makes me feel a bit provincial.

The reason I came to this school is Tamara Blesh, a librarian from Maine, whom I met in Dharamsala last year, and who came to Ladakh last spring and summer to set up a library at the Siddhartha School. How beloved she is for the work she did! She built the bookcases and put rugs on the floor. The books are catalogued, but they need many more. So she’s returning this summer, having ordered a challenging list of 130 more books for the students. And she told me that she will take books to the villages in the mountains, using donkeys to pack them.

Before lunch I was driven by Susheel, the school secretary, to Stok Palace, the home of the present king and of the former king, who died thirty years ago. His widow still lives in Manali. It’s an impressive place to visit with a museum of thangkas over 600 years old. After this we went to a local home where an authentic Ladakhi kitchen was preserved in a small outbuilding. The owners had a new house and extensive farm, but a very old woman took us into the cramped, low-ceilinged room where the old kitchen was, and up perilous stairs to the roof, and into a museum showing the old traditional clothing of the farmers, and their various implements. All of this she did free-of-charge, enjoying the fact that we were interested. I couldn’t believe the road that we took to get there…narrow and rimmed with mud-brick high walls. It was like a dry stream bed.

Lunch was a community affair, with one teacher in charge each month and a small amount of money contributed by everyone to cover expenses. After lunch I was able to tape and photograph kindergarteners…a lively bunch, who sang and danced on and on, and giggled with delight as I replayed their songs. I hope to return to the school and to visit Ugyen’s village.

The evening with the guest house family was warm and the food delicious. But the conversation with a young man getting his doctorate in anthropology, researching the changes in traditional Ladakhi life and medicine, was disturbing. The problems of Ladakh are not known by many of the tourists who visit the beautiful mountains and trek to the ancient monasteries. Many guest houses are going up all around, mostly using Nepalese or Indian labor. Each new room will have a western toilet, which uses precious water that they don’t have and empties it out into the gutter. It’s a total waste. There is no sewage disposal plant and the water, due to the warming of the glaciers, is fast disappearing. In the old style Ladakhi toilet, all waste was mixed with ash and composted, to be used as fertilizer. Now that westerners have insisted on more luxurious toilets, this has been abandoned in many places and insecticides and fertilizers, banned in the West, have been sold to the Ladakhi farmers. They seem to do well for a year or two, but, eventually, deplete the soil. The old system of farming is being tested, and the desire of the younger generation to make more money by moving to Leh has stripped the farmer of its labor force. In some cases there are even farmers who are hiring Nepalis to do their harvesting…something unheard of ten years ago. The new importation of rice, cheaper because it’s supported by the Indian government, now displaces the staple barley and wheat grown here.

Whenever I get discouraged about “progress,” I realize that there are those, like the Woman’s Alliance of Ladakh, who are working on these problems. The strange thing is that while this part of the world is embracing the West as the ideal (Barbie Dolls, chewing gum, and Lay’s potato chips), the West is realizing more and more that their materialistic life is not bringing happiness and peace of mind and is looking toward the East for answers.

There is Nothing Like a Farm, Especially One in Ladakh!

By Meg Noble Peterson

On May 18, 2008

In Ladakh

I’ve already written about the glorious day I spent at a farm in Phyang with my new friend, Ajaz Ahmed. I was lucky to visit another farm last weekend, this time staying overnight at the family home of Stanzin Lhwang in Nimmo. I felt that I had stepped out of Helena Norberg-Hodges’ book into the traditional farm culture. Nothing is wasted, farming is ecologically sound, and eleven members of the family live in a large white house built of bricks and stone, with those artistic wooden windows in every room. There are even rooms underneath the house (like the Nepalese homes in the Khumba) where the animals stay in the dead of winter.

The doors are low and the door sills high to keep the cold out in winter. I walked into the kitchen/living/dining area, a huge space that reminded me of a temple on Inle Lake in Myanmar that I had visited last year. Pillars held up the roof, mattresses covered with Tibetan rugs lined two sides, a small wood stove, which burned dried yak dung, stood in a corner, and two more larger stoves were used for cooking. One whole wall displayed beautiful ornamental copper pots in glass cases. Washing was done in huge metal bowls, and there was always steaming chai (milk tea) available. I was welcomed by grandparents, parents, and a sister, and enjoyed watching the loving, joyful way Lhwang cared for his two 1/2-year-old son, a most precocious, happy child. It made me wish that the world could live in a more cooperative manner like this. Lhwang’s wife and daughter live in Leh, where the daughter is in school and the mother is teaching, but they gather at the farmhouse most weekends. During the evening meal the great-grandma was holding her prayer wheel and her beads and softly repeating mantras. I saw this last night at my guest house and wished I could capture the serenity of these wonderful old faces.

In the afternoon there was some more plowing and planting of potatoes, with lunch served in the field. I noticed that there were many small fields with stands of tall thin trees surrounded by mud-brick walls, and was told that these were cut down in the winter for fuel, only to grow once again in the summer. Nothing was left to chance.

Lhwang and I talked about everything, from the fast-disappearing tradition of arranged marriage to rebirth and Rinpoches. He has traveled extensively as a guide, and knows several languages besides Tibetan. He shared all kinds of information about the care of the family gardens, the rotation of crops and the gathering of seeds, and even the two days a week when one is allowed to wash clothes or bathe in the stream running between the farms. When mud is dug for bricks, you must first remove the topsoil, and then dig up the inferior dirt from below, before replacing the good soil. Everything that is done has the preservation of the land in mind. And as with Ajaz’s family, cooperation among villagers is paramount.

Each family has its own religious shrine (a small room with tiny silver containers for water and various paintings or replicas of the Buddha), usually tended by the grandparents. They burn incense and chant at night. I lay on my bed in a a beautiful room with large windows on two sides, reached by a steep ladder to the upstairs roof, and listened to the mantras late into the evening.

As we walked to the bus in the morning, everyone stopped to talk and share news. I went back to Leh alone, since Lhwang had been asked to help a neighbor with his plowing. This is a short season and timing is very important. We will meet later in the week to plan our treks.

In a lighter vein, let me warn you travelers about Indian banks. My experience with them has been dreadful. They define inefficiency. You are sent from office to office, where nobody seems to be working, but many are chatting on the phone. Finally, when you ask if anybody wants your money, they send you to Thomas Cook, which is most efficient and charges no fee.

I want to thank Cary for posting these blogs. Both of us are having problems with the paragraphing. I think wordpress is just playing with us and trying to challenge our readers. We’ll solve it soon, I hope. Please be patient!

VALLEYS, SNOW-CAPPED MOUNTAINS, PERILOUS ROADS, MONASTERIES, AND FRIENDLY BUSES….

By Meg Noble Peterson

On May 17, 2008

In Ladakh

These are a few of the features of this exotic place. I could write an entire piece just on some of my bus rides and on finding the right bus station in Leh. Buses come in all shapes and sizes and degrees of (dis)comfort, and I love them! I’ve been dropped off in the middle of nowhere and always found someone who can lead me to a cafe where someone else has a cell phone and can find a friend or tell me when the next bus arrives (then you run like crazy to catch it and hope to find a seat). I was waiting for a new friend, Stanzin Lhwang, whom daughter Cary made contact with in the caves of Tso Pema last summer, and met six Kahmiris from Kargil and Srinigar, here to work on broadband installations. We started conversing–everything from business to politics–and they offered me a ride this weekend to Kargil to explore parts of Kashmir. How I would have loved to go, but this is the time I’ll be starting on a four day trek with Lhwang to see if I’m fit for an eight day over two high passes when James arrives. I don’t know. This altitude is still causing me to puff up the hills! I think I’ve walked at least six miles a day, dodged a few hundred buses and taxis (agility comes with age and experience), and eaten enough dhal, rice, chapatti, and paneer to last a lifetime. I’m even finding the thought of a hamburger exciting! And a salad…well, that sends me into a swoon.

First, a few pointers for those of you wishing to use the quaint and colorful buses of northern India. I will admit that I didn’t like the night bus from Majnu Ka Tilla to Dharamsala last year, but these daytime buses in Ladakh are lots of fun. First, you need to bring small packages of tissues, for someone around you is invariably going to have a cold, and is very grateful to substitute a good blow for constant sniffing. Then you should expect that many people are going to want to practice English and get very excited when you cooperate. It’s also a good feeling to be appreciated for something you learned as a child and for which you deserve no credit. Next, you need to really love babies. They are many and they are adorable. You must enjoy making faces, but if that isn’t your specialty they’ll stare wide-eyed at you, anyway, because you look so different. And keep that repertoire of folk and nonsense songs handy. The mothers will love you and the babies respond with appropriate gurgling. If you really get on a roll, some other babies may be placed in your lap to get in on the act.

Be flexible and show no shock when a five gallon can of gasoline is placed next to your seat and covered by a 50 lb. sack of basmati rice. Extra baggage is placed in the aisle and the conductor…a very patient man…carefully walks over it to collect the 20 rupee fare individually. He also stands on the steps with the door open and signals by whistling or shouting what is going on along the way. Returning from Nimmo last Monday I happened onto a bus from Senegal, which had been traveling with its load (very tired families) for three days. I was put in the front cab with others who sat on the engine cover and draped over one another. Someone saw my camera and everyone wanted a picture. Then they motioned to the driver to pose. I was horrified, for we were on a high curve above an abyss, and the last thing the driver needed was a distraction. But it was a jolly party with lots of horseplay. This time I was left by the roadside on the outskirts of Leh. Fortunately, I had noticed that the smaller buses went to the central station, so hailed one filled to overflowing and was ushered up the aisle. An adorable Buddhist lady with a prayer wheel in her hand took my pack and insisted that I squeeze in next to her and a child. She wouldn’t think of my standing. Not a word was spoken. Just friendliness asking for nothing in return.

I’ve moved to a new and quieter and less expensive place, The Goba Guest House. My room has a view of the Shakti Stupa and Leh Palace, and the roof off which my room is situated has a view of the entire mountain range. I can never remember whether it’s the Indian Himalaya, the Ladakh Range, or the Karakoram, part of the consequence of being directionally and geographically challenged. But I know the sun comes up over those gorgeous hills and that’s good enough for me. The weather is very sunny, but can change to cold rain or snow in a moment and back to sun the next. On our trip to the famous Lake Pangong, over roads that made your wish to sink into a coma until it was over, it was sunny at the lake, but snowed tiny ball-like sleet after lunch. On this trip several days ago, I became acquainted with Mark, a young Englishman who plans to teach ESL at the Thiksay Monastery near Leh, an Italian woman, Francesca, who has been a social worker in Calcutta for a year, a Frenchman, Eduard, who has been teaching French and is now headed back to Paris, and a Calcutta business man, Munoj. What a party we made! The lake, about 130 km long and part in China, has no outlet, so is very salty. Nothing will grow in it, but the colors change with the slant of the sun and the convoluted mountains come right down to its shores. The men enjoyed skipping flat rocks that rim the shore. Boys will be boys forever! This is a 13-hour drive over the Chang La, the third hghest pass in Ladakh (17,500 ft.). After such a perilous ride we had all bonded, and spent the next evening in a farewell party for Mark and Munoj with a new friend Isaac, whom we had met that afternoon at the showing of the film based on the book, Ancient Futures, at the Woman’s Alliance in Leh. A powerful movie with a powerful discussion afterwards. Our two favorite restaurants so far are the Leh View in town and Cafe Jeevan on the Changspa Rd.

A word about the trip I took the last two days. I had hoped to trek into the Nubra Valley, but after reading the altitudes of the various mountain passes, I opted for a jeep ride…jeeps being the wonderful and ubiquitous Toyota Land Cruisers that Cary and I became acquainted with in Tibet. These are tough babies and the roads are unbelievably bad once you leave the checkpoint at South Pulu. All of these roads were built for the military and permits are required for anyone traveling the route. The valley is full of flowers and is velvet green starting in late June, but now it is a vast desert with every-changing sand color, sparse vegetation, and mountains with the most unusual striations and shapes and forms you can imagine. I went crazy taking pictures, but they all pale in comparison to the real thing. As at Pangong Lake, the roads are banks of switchbacks at intervals down the mountains–so narrow that a horn was required around most of the hairpin turns.

The Nubra Valley is a sensitive border region and was finally opened to foreigners in 1994. The two-day trip over the highest motorable road in the world (18,380 ft.), the Khardung La (pass), is one of the most frightening I’ve ever experienced, including those wild rides in Nepal and Tibet. No guard rails for the most part, and you just keep climbing over the narrow roads until you reach overhanging snow and icicles that sparkle in the sun. It’s like riding in a tunnel flanked by snow sculptures. A few times we met trucks and it’s a miracle that we didn’t plummet over the side. It has been unnerving to me to get used to driving on the left, especially when the left is clilffside.

It took three hours from Leh to cover the 39 km. to the top of the pass, but the views of the Zanskar Mountains were worth it! We were 100 meters higher than Everest Base Camp and 795 m.higher than Mont Blanc. And I felt it! This whole area is characterized by deep, sheer-sided valleys, high mountains, many still snow-covered, and long glaciers. The highest peak in Ladakh is Saser Kangri (25,165 ft.) and the longest glacier is Siachem Glacier (70 km.). It is still the scene of fighting between India and Pakistan.

After overnighting at the Snow Leopard Guest House in Hunder, we continued on to Sumoor to visit the Samstamling Monastery and view the Shyok and Nubra Rivers that are sandwiched between the Karakoram Mountains and the Ladakh Range. Fertile villages are scattered along these two valley floors. We eschewed the desert camel rides. What do they think we are…tourists?

Our two new friends on the trip were Marco and Karin, two charming teachers of handicapped and special needs children from Karlsrule, Germany. Francisca and I left them in Hunder and spent the morning climbing up a steep, rocky switchback trail to two old temples on the way to an abandoned gompa. We were able to peer into these ancient rooms and could see that they were still being tended by the monks of the Hunter Gompa, which could be reached by road, and contained age-old frescoes in the Kashmiri tradition.

The highlight of the trip was a visit the day before to the Diskit Gompa perched on a hillside, 200 meters above the village. It was comprised of multiple temples on many levels. The monks were friendly and showed us several of the temples, all with replicas of the Buddha, and beautiful wall paintings, thousands of years old. I was overwhelmed with emotion when one of the monks offered to light a butter candle in memory of Christopher, whose 54th birthday would have been the next day, May 16th.

May is a month when our entire family thinks of Christopher…his birth and his death. I feel especially privileged and comforted to be in a place of continuing spiritual awareness and practice, and Buddhist belief in the continuation of the human spirit.

This is the blog for Meg Noble Peterson, whose latest book is Madam, Have You Ever Really Been Happy? An Intimate Journey Through Africa and Asia, the story of her first eight-month solo backpacking trip around the world. A synopsis and excerpts from the book can be found on this website.

I began this blog, detailing my recent adventures throughout the world, in the summer of 2005 with my trip to Sweden and Norway. Scroll down to the end to begin this journey. And be sure to browse the Archives and Categories for more in-depth information with photos and stories.

In the blog I include backpacking trips to northern and southern India, Nepal, Myanmar, Ladakh, Kashmir, Sikkim, Bhutan, and Tanzania, as well as backpacking and hiking in the Pacific Northwest and the White Mountains of New Hampshire.

Here is a quick recap of trips taken before starting the blog:

In March, 2005, I traveled to Prague in the Czech Republic.

In May, 2004, I spent a month with my eldest daughter in Tibet. Together we circumambulated sacred Mt. Kailash over the Dolma La (pass) at 18,000 ft. and Lake Manasarovar at 14,000 ft. We camped in the countryside, mixed with nomads, and visited the sacred places and temples of this beleaguered country.

In May, 2003, I explored the many facets of Peru and climbed on the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu.

In May, 1999 I did the Wainwright Walk across England from St. Bees Head on the Irish Sea to Robin Hood’s Bay on the North Sea. And in November and early December of the same year I trekked, once again, in Nepal, doing the Annapurna circuit, and going over the Thorong La (pass) at 17,500 ft.

To see the places I traveled on my previous trips, visit the map on this website.

In 1998, my eldest son, Christopher, treated the entire family to a trip to the Galapagos Islands, three years before he died. This will remain one of the high points of all my travel adventures.

Meg Noble Peterson

Author of Madam, Have You Ever Really Been Happy? An Intimate Journey through Africa and Asia

AN ELECTION HAS BEEN WON AND TRANQUILITY REIGNS AGAIN…SORT OF

BACK FROM THE CANADIAN ROCKIES TO A NEW JERSEY INDIAN SUMMER!

THE RETURN OF THE NATIVE: back home at last, but not for long….

RETURN TO THE NEW HAMPSHIRE WOODS….

LAST DAYS IN LEH

TREKS AND MONASTERIES

OLD LEH, FAMILY HOMES, AND A SUMMER BLIZZARD….

Monasteries, Schools and Heavenly Sunshine

There is Nothing Like a Farm, Especially One in Ladakh!

VALLEYS, SNOW-CAPPED MOUNTAINS, PERILOUS ROADS, MONASTERIES, AND FRIENDLY BUSES….

Purchase the Book