A Strong Wind Blows North

by Brynn Pedrick (United States of America)

I didn't expect to find Nepal

It wasn’t just the cold air seeping through the down of my sleeping bag that woke me from a deep, Himalayan sleep. The steady chant of Phurbu’s morning prayers came from the room beside me, and light was shining through my window; outside, the clouds hadn’t yet found the mountains and the dew was only starting to run from the morning sun. I slipped out of my bedroll and into an extra layer to protect against the winds I’d grown accustomed to. To see the clearest view of the greatest peak, I took a few, quiet steps from the only inn in Salung. It was the home of a young couple and their infant daughter. The night before, Toma had made Roti bread and milk tea while I sat beside the open flame of her wood stove. We hadn’t shared words, because we didn’t know how, but her daughter had danced as we hummed the sounds of a shared humanity. I thought back to the day before and our hike to get here. Phurbu and I had left the monastery so early that we hadn’t made it to morning prayer. The bells of Serlo monastery rang three times, as they always did; their slow sound woke the locals one deep echo at a time. A few minutes followed before I heard the shuffling of boys on their way to temple wearing crimson robes, wool socks, and worn sandals. I always stumbled to find my shoes in the dark of early morning, but in the temple, where the brassy sounds of the horn met the chorus of Tibetan monks, I always found myself. The morning of our hike to Salung, though, I knew exactly where to find my shoes. Phurbu had said the night before, "we leave before the light breaks, be quick to find your shoes." He was shy unlike most boys at the monastery, who ran about the grounds alight with conversation, laughter, and gossip. It was hours into our hike before I realized we hadn’t spoken more than to navigate worn trails and roadblocks. I remember being so grateful for the quiet. Above the hush of the mountain breeze, I heard the steady crunch of frozen grass beneath each step, a sound that spoke the words we couldn’t. The foothills wore a coat of evergreen, and our trail weaved between the tree line. We walked above the clouds, though there weren’t many. In the towns below, seen from our route, were homesteads that stretched into the earth around them. This hike was my favorite kind of hike—not so steep, but long and wild. By midday, we had only reached half-way, and my mind wandered further into days before. I thought of a day not long before that one. As a young woman in a foreign country, I had found myself at the liberty of men who gave me no reason to trust them. Transportation from Kathmandu to the Everest region—the site of my work for six weeks—started with a twelve hour drive in a faulty vehicle. I hadn’t hesitated to sign up for this adventure, but on that day I wished that maybe I had. Drunk drivers, road work, and engine problems had created a nightmare of international travel, and as I soaked in the warmth of rural sun on the mountainside, I remembered the tears I had cried to get here. My eyes watered, and I remember feeling the wind push me forward: "keep going, these steps are important." Now, in Salung, the morning air wraps itself around me once again as I stand outside the homestead. The hair on my arms and the back of my neck rises, but not because the chill has snuck beyond my jacket. This place is striking, and I think of all that got me here. From inside the house, I hear the song of Phurbu’s prayers and the laughter of Toma and her daughter preparing breakfast. In clear view, across the valley, is the beauty of something larger than life: the peaks of Mount Everest. The wind wipes my tears, and I’m overwhelmed with compassion and acceptance. This is life, this is living.