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Keeping animals as pets is a worldwide phenomenon. The most favored are dogs, with cats coming a close second. But the outlandish taste of individuals is baffling. It can stretch from fish to guinea pigs, ferrets, rodents, reptiles, and predators like cheetahs and lions. Returning from work one day, I caught sight of a brace of red-eared slider turtles (Trachemys scripta elegans) in a fishbowl in my two daughters’ room. I learned my elder teenage daughter, Smriti, had bought them. Aw, what on earth!? Of all the pets, I said to myself. For three years, Smriti and my younger daughter, Preeti, took care of the turtles, and my wife and I didn’t need to bother about them. The siblings handled their pets well. They took care of the feeding, cleaning, and replacing the water. At first, the tiny critters were no bigger than a large coin but, with time, they grew. The fishbowl turned out to be too cramped for the restless wild critters. So, I got a larger tank, and our daughters and their pets seemed happy. After two years, Smriti left Nepal for the US for further studies, leaving the turtles’ care to Preeti. But something went awry, and one of the turtles died. A sad incident for all of us, more so for Preeti. She blamed herself for it. Time heals the worst of wounds and Preeti recovers. The lonely turtle also bounced back to life. Years went by, and we moved into our new house. As the turtle kept growing, the aquarium, too, seemed inadequate. So, I built a miniature pond in our garden. The semiaquatic turtle appeared thrilled as the pond meant it could swim in a larger space, bask in the sun, and wander around our small garden. Everything was great, for a while. But it wasn’t meant to last. After raising the turtle for three years, Preeti, too left for the States. As my wife, Radhika, had to report to work, the responsibility of looking after the turtle fell upon me. Taking care of a turtle is easier said than done. The ordeal began, putting me to a genuine test. Feeding the turtle was no big deal, nor was tank cleaning, as it had an outlet to drain off the sullied water and an inlet to let in a fresh supply. Most reptiles lay eggs, as snakes do. Turtles, cold-blooded reptilians, do the same. I figured my non-mated she-turtle would not spawn. I got it all wrong. Once, I found it rambling around the garden in a frenzy, desperate to find a niche to lay eggs. It laid two unfertilized eggs—they did not hatch. I had no clue that the restlessness reached its peak during the spawning season. It tried more often than not to slip out of our compound at such times. All it needed was an open gate or a gap in the grill to squeeze through or creep past unnoticed when someone entered. Despite all the measures I took, to my great misery, the turtle got lost time and again, and I had to comb the neighborhood looking for it. Once, my doorbell rang; it was a neighbor. He held the turtle in his hands. What he told me next nearly gave me a cardiac arrest. “Bro, your turtle got run over by a car on the road next to my house,” he said. However, it escaped unscathed as the road was dirt, and the car’s weight pushed it down under soft soil that worked as a cushion. Once, I was tending to the turtle’s bleeding lip. It had cut it on a sharp rock in the garden. She bit my finger and would not let go of it, though it was bloodied. This wasn’t an isolated incident, though. It sank its teeth into my finger again another time. The list of my trials and tribulations in caring for my turtle is endless. Today, the turtle is 15 years old. I have cared for it for over a decade. It’s still alive and kicking. The internet tells me a captive-bred red-eared slider can, in many instances, live 50 years. In that case, it still has 35 years to go. My turtle will surely outlive me, as I’m 70 today. [email protected]

Under the shadows of the Himalayas, Nepal bears a myriad of rivers—snow-fed and spring-fed. They drain south into our Terai plains and the holy Ganges, India. Many of our rivers are home to a species of fish called the Himalayan Golden Mahseer (Tor putitora), Sahar in Nepali. Golden Mahseer is a migratory cold-water fish that inhabits our rivers like Sapta Koshi with its seven tributaries (Sun Koshi, Tamor, Dudh Koshi, Bhote Koshi, Arun, and Likhu), Karnali, Seti, Mahakali, Bheri, and Narayani. It spawns during monsoon floods (June-September). Redolent of the salmon that travels thousands of miles upstream to spawn, the Mahseer swims upriver to considerable heights (from 400 ft. to 2,500ft from mean sea level) to breed. After monsoon breeding, they leave the foothills and make a migratory run back to the colder climes of the upper reaches. Curiously, its entire life cycle seems on the run—migrating. Some 15 years ago, I took up fishing—and got hooked on it. I learned further about Golden Mahseer, the Himalayan freshwater gamefish, as time passed. Avid fishers claimed it was the toughest of the tough, the ferocious of the ferocious among the freshwater sport fish. They further cited that gamefish fought like cornered predators and exhibited such brute power and lightning speed no other freshwater fish (excluding salt or sea water) in the world could match. That sparked my curiosity; my passion for digging into this charismatic species became an obsession. The more I studied about this fish, my respect for it ballooned. For seven long years, my research on these species took me to a host of rivers stretching from the length and breadth of Nepal: from Arun, Tammar, Sun Koshi, and Tama Koshi in the east to Karnali, Trishuli, and Babai in the west. Only to learn the Himalayan Golden Mahseer number had dwindled, and the species had fallen under the IUCN Red List as encroached, threatened, and endangered.  Given its endangered status, responsible Mahseer anglers today practice catch-n-release: they make the prize catches, measure and weigh them, and then release them live into the river where they belong after posed photo sessions. Browsing through the pages of several books on Mahseer, I stumbled upon an amusing anecdote about how this fish won laurels worldwide. In the 1850s, during the British Raj in India (1858 to 1947), a young British officer commissioned to Assam Province, India, had a weakness for fishing—fixated on it in truth. After reporting for duty and being well-quartered, the fresher started hanging around with fellow officers in the officers' club to unwind in the evenings. One day, the conversation touched upon fishing in particular. The newcomer livened up. He pitched himself on his exploits of salmon fishing back home in England; he sounded a tad verbose, though. One officer asked: "Have you heard about Golden Mahseer?" When the officer let him on the native Mahseer fish, the fellow snapped back instead. "Mahseer? There's no match to the gallant salmon over freshwater fishing," he said and rambled on about salmon angling. The co-officers realized it'd be futile to argue with him. One day, the officer went fishing in a nearby river noted for Mahseer. After an hour, he finally got a bite—a huge 45-pounder Mahseer bit his bait. Whoa! Pandemonium broke out, followed by a fierce skirmish. After sweating it out for over an hour, he finally landed the prize fish. The Englishman, cut down to size and humbled by the unbridled fury of the Golden Mahseer, never talked about salmon among his fellow officers after that. Many incidents of smashed rods, mangled hooks, and broken lines are predictable if the angler fails to tackle a big Mahseer that shoots for the nearest rapid. Talk to a Mahseer buff, and he will never tire of relating his experience in one breath—the bite, the jerk, and the initial rush, which can be anything from 100 to 200 yards of the fishing line. Desperate, he races along the rocky bank to keep pace, fearing the reel might run out and his fishing line snaps. Leafing through the pages of history, Mahseer, for its notoriety, turned out to be a legend. It became the most sought-after gamefish and a hot topic for the wordsmiths. Books upon books, journals upon journals, dedicated themselves to this acclaimed species. The legendary hunter, naturalist, and writer (Man-eaters of Kumaon, 1944), Col. Jim Corbett, called it "the fish of my dreams" and dubbed it 'the Tiger of the Water.' Another celebrated author, Skene Dhu, christened it the 'Mighty Mahseer.' Tight lines. Watch the video my fisher friends recorded in 2014: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nNBvX07eIqo  

On the fourth day of our cycling trip to Lo Manthang in Upper Mustang, we spent the night in a town called Gheling (3,570m), nestled amidst barren, eroded badlands. The fascinating discovery of a severed human hand at Gheling gompa (monastery) added a breath of mystery to our exploits. My three companions, Khashing, Diwas, and Shayeet, after a cup of shucha and salted butter tea (pocha in Tibetan), took a stroll through the village and dropped by a gompa. I stayed back at the lodge since I’d developed a mild headache and felt too burnt out after the grueling climb of Syangmochen La (pass) at 3,850m; the bleak wind at gale speed threatened to hurl me off my bike, further fueling my misery.  Sonam, the hostess, and Chhiring, her three-year-old son, kept me company as I huddled before the iron stove with a large kettle in the dining room. While I chatted with the lady, Chirring kept eyeing me with a mischievous look but stayed withdrawn and bashful.  Dried yak and chyangra (domesticated mountain goat) droppings are fuel for firing iron stoves throughout the Upper Mustang. Even in prewinter November, the weather at night dropped to minus three to four degrees.  The room doubled as a kitchen and a dining space with painted wooden tables and benches with woolen rugs spread over the top. As a few thangka scrolls hung on the walls, a framed photo of His Holiness, the 14th Dalai Lama, looked on solemnly.  My friends showed up as I sampled a glass of uwa rakshi (naked barley liquor). The heat from the stove and the drink managed to take the chill off me. My ears pricked when they recounted the sensational happening.  Kunga, a teenage lama (monk), showed my friends around the monastery. They learned he sought ordination into Lama Hood (monkhood) and worked and studied there.  The young monk fetched a bundle swathed in vermillion cloth and unwrapped it. What my friends saw left them baffled. He held a shriveled, hacked-off human right hand, which Kunga claimed dated back over 500 years. The hand still had a gold ring on the ring finger. “This hand belonged to the thief who entered the gompa and tried to steal ancient artifacts. The custodian of the monastery caught him red-handed, chopped off his right hand, and turned him over to the authorities. At Tsarang, too, the royal palace holds one,” said Kunga.  The monk even allowed them to touch it but forbade them to take pictures. Every monastery in Lower and Upper Mustang prohibits photography. It felt genuine, Shayeet swore, and the rest nodded in agreement. Sonam stood by the story. It was apparently local folklore in Gheling. I decided I’d not let the opportunity to see it myself slip at Mustang Raja’s (King) palace in Tsarang.  The next day, we left Gheling and hit the road to Tasarang (3,588m). The morning was crisp but there was no sign of wind. We knew we would face the blast after 11 am though. At a foothill, we ran into a string of horses—regular sightings in Mustang—nibbling on a patch of grass.  At sundown, we arrived in Tsarang, built in the 13th century by the first King of Lo, Chhyogel Ame Pal Sangpo. All four of us were fit to drop as we had to tackle the 4,020m high Nyi La pass with the howling, biting wind that furiously lashed at us. As darkness approached, we called it a day. We struck for the white Dzong (fortress) the next day, the palace of the late King of Mustang, Jigme Palbar Bista.  Standing high on a sandstone cliff and ringed by a thicket of poplar and wild willow, the five-story structure looked formidable but rundown, almost falling apart—tall crumbling walls in ruins stood close by. The site looked deserted. There was no one around and a sign read closed to visitors. My hopes to see the shriveled hands were quashed. We ran into a middle-aged monk heading towards the town, thumbing his prayer beads as we prepared to leave. He seemed very forthcoming and told us the fort still housed the king’s armory, a gallery, and the royal chambers, but they were all in dilapidated states. One room held the chopped-off human hands. After the 2015 earthquake, visitors got barred for safety reasons.  The story at Tsarang differed from Gheling’s though. Going by the local lore, the king ordered to chop off the right hand of the main builder of the palace so he could not erect another of his masterpieces. As we hit the trail, the matter of the severed hands remained vague and shrouded in profound mystery. Watch the video footage on chopped-off hands at Gheling and Tsarang uploaded on Instagram by Magnus Ronningen, a Norwegian adventurer and journalist: https://www.instagram.com/p/BJSQGAmAf61/

Crestfallen at failing to locate the Gupteswor Mahadev buried under heavy cover, Shishir led the way back. He proposed we take a different route back via the northwest face of the Nagarjun hill, including a 12-km stretch of the Nagarjun forest (Shivapuri Nagarjun National Park). It sounded fantastic. We fist-bumped and hopped onto our saddles.  Shishir seemed to be his old self again, which made me happy. We took a break at a small settlement called Chilaune after two hours on the northwest ridge of the Bhim Dunga heights, Dhading.  The landscape continued with the familiar wooded hills, farmland, and rustic settings. The place had a distant but clear view of the northern fringes of Kathmandu valley and the towering Shivapuri hill.  After stiff climbs and thrilling downhills, we stopped at a teashop at Gauri Gaun. It was a little past 2:00 pm, and we felt like we could eat a horse. We ordered egg-veg-noodle soup—a double for Shishir. I looked up, and my eyes locked on a row of tied bunches of corncobs and onions hung to dry under a tin lean-to on the roof.  I could not resist asking the Tamang lady who was the owner of the place for a few onion bulbs with a striking auburn shade. I wanted some as a souvenir from the trip. Amused, the middle-aged Tamang lady took it as a compliment and grinned from ear to ear.  If you love forests, I suggest you look no further and pack your bags and set off to Nagarjun or Shivapuri hills. Further, these woods are no less than a treasure trove if you enjoy bird-watching. These forests are home to more than 300 species of birds, including the rare Hoary-throated Barwing, White-throated Tit, and no less than the elusive Spiny Babbler (Kande Bhyakur in Nepali), an endemic species found only in Nepal.   It was already 4:30 pm in the afternoon when we stopped at a tea shop at Sano Gaun. We felt we deserved some rest, a hot cup of tea, and a little refreshment.  My pulse raced as I thought about the last leg of the trip—a 12 km stretch cutting across the dense Nagarjun forest, a haven for the residents of the wild. I had done that stretch some eight years back. It was close to 5:00 pm as we pedaled past the army checkpoint and entered the forest. Shishir led the way down the windy dirt road which was pitted and waterlogged. At 6.30 pm, darkness closed in, and we fixed the lights onto our handlebars. Then it rained. The long stretch of the forest seemed endless as we pedaled across the narrow motor track, tricky and dangerous as we navigated the many puddles and potholes in the beams of our lights. The rain only made it worse.  Shishir led the way, and I stayed close behind. Often, we had to dismount in ankle-deep mud as our front tires got stuck. Thankfully, none of us had an accident though. I suddenly recalled a small conversation with a few army guys at the teashop at Sano Gaun. One of them had a hair-raising tale to tell.  One late afternoon, on his way back from Balaju to report to duty at the barracks of Sano Gaun, the army chap suddenly froze. He had heard some rustling sounds. He turned around to check and his eyes fell on a full-grown leopard barely 15 feet away. As it turned out, it was stalking its prey—a deer foraging by the roadside.  The deer must have caught the scent of the army man or heard the sound he made. It got spooked and dashed into the bush. And next thing he knew, the leopard had turned its piercing gaze upon him. The man knew turning around and bolting would only tempt the predator to pounce on him. The best thing to do was lock eyes with it, shuffle backward slowly for a few yards, then run hell for leather. He did not know how he made it to the barracks. It took him 20 minutes. At other times, it would take him no less than 40 minutes.  After another 45 minutes through the pitch-dark forest, braving the drizzle and the tricky track, our mind-boggling ride ended at Mudkhu Bhanjyang. Shishir and I parted ways at the Balaju bypass. As I headed home, I kept thinking about our escapade from Mahesh Narayan hills to the verdant Nagarjun forest. It had, in all sincerity, taken my breath away.  As poet and civil rights activist Maya Angelou rightly said, “Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breaths away.” [email protected]

In 2014, I visited the USA for the first time ever to see my two daughters. My wife was supposed to join me, but something came up at her office. My eight-hour flight to Seoul Incheon Airport, South Korea, felt like an eternity, followed by another fidgety nine-hour layover. I became so flustered I almost missed the connecting flight—running around in circles in the confusing chaos of the mammoth airport. The flight to Dallas, Texas, was a long-haul one. It took 13 hours—it felt like an awful dream. Nervousness kept me awake the entire flight. I felt disoriented, sleep-deprived, and dizzy when I shook hands with my salo (brother-in-law) at the Dallas airport. Then began the horrible jetlag as I’d leapfrogged multiple time zones and my body’s circadian rhythm was busted. It took an entire week for me to feel better. Like in movies, America appeared phenomenal—nay, intimidating. The high-rise blocks, skyline dominated by skyscrapers, colossal infrastructures, from eight to jaw-dropping 26-lane roads (Katy Freeway, Houston), gigantic flyovers, and bustling boulevards all knocked me off my feet. Greenery appeared as another facade to American character and culture. On long drives, I gawked at scenic lakes, woodlands, nature parks, and breathtaking rural America. After a week’s stay in Dallas, I left for Granbury, a two-hour drive from Dallas to my cousin’s place. The small city was a completely different experience from the hectic Dallas. My cousin lived in the suburbs next to a sprawling golf course with scenic ponds and cascading waterfalls. The picturesque surroundings became my regular evening haunts. To my great surprise, gaggles of wild Canada geese foraged on the lush turf or frolicked in the many pools. They were almost tame when approached. A few weeks later, trouble began. I had sleep disorders compounded by a phobia of air-conditioning. It made me claustrophobic. I slept with windows open back home in Kathmandu. Daytimes were fun, though, as my cousin took me around Granbury’s historical sites and on long drives. After one and a half months, I left for Findlay, Ohio, to my younger daughter’s place. Findlay turned out to be a small city with bracing weather than the humid Granbury. My daughter fussed over me since we had met after eight long years. Although busy at work, she took time off for sightseeing and eating out. It was a really fun time. Trouble followed though. I missed dal-bhat (Nepali staple food). I had had no problem with my brother-in-law and cousin in Texas because lunch and supper often consisted of dal-bhat, but it was a different story in Findlay. My daughter was married to an American; they never ate dal-bhat. Their everyday meals consisted of pizzas, sandwich wraps, salads, and whatnot. My fixation on dal-bhat increased exponentially when I had to go without it for weeks. At least one meal of dal-bhat would have been great. How I wished! When we went out to eat, near desperation, I’d make sure it was an Indian restaurant where I could gorge on rice and dal (lentils). But that did not happen every day. One day, there was a  knock at our door. The visitor was a Nepali student, shacked up with three others in a rented house a spitting distance away. Curious, I dropped by their house one day. The entire apartment reeked of a typical Nepali kitchen when I stepped in. Pleasantries over, I learned they were about to have lunch. A sharp whiff of chicken curry waded through the room and I almost drooled. “Uncle, we’re having lunch; why don’t you join us?” one of them asked. Whoa! He took the words right out of my mouth. I ate like a pig that day. It looked like I’d found a panacea for my misery. My visits to the Nepali students’ place became frequent. To return the favor, I took along some goodies. All went well and the rest of my stay with my daughter passed without a hitch, followed by more fun after my elder daughter arrived from Georgia. I picked up good vibes in America, such as being polite, saying thank you, greeting people on the street, avoiding staring at people, and holding the door at a store for someone close behind. A lesson in humility? Disappointments? At first blush in Dallas, I felt America only had the elderly and morbidly obese people. The fit and the young seemed rare. Once driving through snowfall with my daughter in Findlay, my eyes met a bizarre sight. A couple of guys at a road curb held placards saying: Homeless, need food and a job. My daughter told me it was an everyday sight. In America? I couldn’t believe my eyes. In hindsight, my first American experience was one of a kind, completely different from what I had expected. [email protected]

“It always seems impossible until it’s done.” Nelson Mandela. Word got around among the mountain biking fraternity that pro-biker Mangal Krishna Lama planned to pull off a solo ride on his mountain bike, the GHT (Great Himalaya Trail). Veteran mountain bikers did not believe a word about it. A formidable feat even for trekkers, cycling the GHT alone sounded impossible—to dare it—sheer lunacy. When he embarked on his ambitious expedition on 1 April 2022, Mtb buffs still didn’t buy it and believed he would soon admit defeat. The GHT is an epic 150-day trek that covers 1,700 km (1,056 miles), originating from the north of the Kanchenjunga Base Camp with the world’s third highest peak, Kanchenjunga (8,586 meters), towering over it. Classed as the world's highest trail, it traverses untamed wilderness with dangerous passes, glaciers, and Himalayan plateaus, culminating in Hilsa in mid-western Nepal in Humla. Given its demanding and punishing nature, most trekkers drop it without completing so much as half the route. Introduced in early 2000, barely 150 trekkers have thus far completed the GHT thru-hiking. Even for 37-year-old Mangal, a pro-biker-racer, an accredited Mtb tour guide, a bike mechanic, and 15 years of cycling behind him, a crack at GHT was an impossible bargain. And he knew it. To my question, what triggered off this daredevil idea, he said, “I wanted to break away from established norms—a feat no biker had ever done before. I longed to venture into the unridden highland wilderness, as isolated and wild as they could get—whatever it took. And GHT appeared as the ultimate.” Following months of planning, working out the logistics, the itinerary, and the knotty job of raising funds from sponsors, the expedition kicked off from the eastern frontier, the Kanchenjunga Base Camp, his branded Scott bike, dialed in for the harshest terrain. He could not, however, help shake off his misgivings about the mammoth challenge. Split up into eight sections, the trail from day one proved demanding with 60 percent unrideable sections. His backpack weighed a crippling 38kilos, plus his bike. Upon completing the first section from Kanchenjunga to Nun, he figured out it was twice as grueling as he had imagined—the rideable sections fraught with perilous drops into the bargain. The odds seemed stacked against him, riding and lugging the bike on his shoulder, struggling against the severest, most rugged, unforgiving terrain over 6000 meters—the uttermost desolate corners of the globe. Constant dramatic weather shifts with rain, fog, snow, and thinning oxygen levels put every ounce of his strength, grit, and endurance to the test—both physical and mental. Once, under heavy snow, he missed the trail; it took 12 agonizing hours to backtrack to the right course. Then disaster struck at West Col (6,190 meters) on the way to Baruntse Base Camp, Khumbu region. His porter, supposed to drop his backpack by a rope on a steep overhang with hardened blue ice, tried to cross on his own (without crampons). He lost his footing and nearly plummeted down a sheer drop. Thankfully, he let go of the pack and escaped unscathed by holding on to the belay rope. Mangal lost his cycling gear and other trappings, including stoves, butane canisters, sleeping bags, tents, and foodstuff. It devastated him. Stranded with no tent, sleeping bags, and no food, with temperatures dipping way below the sub-zero level, survival for Mangal became a dire issue. By a stroke of luck, he ran into a team of climbers and sought refuge at Baruntse Base Camp with them. After this mishap, Mangal's progress took a grinding halt. “I was so disoriented and despairing I wanted to call it quits. But my inner guide spurred me to pursue what I’d started by putting so much hard work into it. It was my calling, my Karma,” said Mangal. Mangal doubled back to Kathmandu to restore his supplies and gear. He resumed his journey further west to Rolwaling and the Everest region. The formidable passes (22) he braved included Sherpani Col (6,180 meters), West Col (6,190 meters), Amphu Laptse (5,800 meters), and Tashi Laptse (5,700 meters), the ruthless, among others. The trials and tribulations did not end there. Mangal endured many sleepless nights as the temperature dipped to 20 degrees. Worse still, he fell sick at Dinboche, and Gokyo, the Everest region, deprived of nourishing food on the trail and dehydrated. It took him four days to recover before he pressed on. For Mangal, a skilled mechanic, other hiccups like snapped chains, busted dropouts, broken wheel spokes, and many a flat seemed secondary. During the entire journey, he had to face just about every conceivable hardship—nay beyond that. But every travail, the racking moments, and the tormenting loneliness dissipated when his eyes locked on the breathtaking Himalayas, the insane landscapes, and the raw wilderness—beyond the sense of awe and beauty. Every bend unfolded jaw-dropping moments, from ancient monasteries and timeless villages to alpine lakes, glaciers, and incredible lush valleys. His stopovers at many villages let him rub elbows with the local folks, making him immensely happy and forget every hardship he sustained. He felt saddened to see the harsh life of the remote villages economically threadbare. He realized potentially endless possibilities existed to mitigate the quality of life for the impoverished but culturally rich villagers if GHT got promoted as a tourist destination for hiking and cycling. “I set my sights on using my GHT experience as a benchmark to lobby for this cause,” said Mangal. As he progressed westward past Syabrubesi, Dharapani, and Kagbeni (Mustang), the trail afforded quite some pedaling, to Mangal’s great delight. After landing in Gamagadi, Mugu, his excitement ran riot in anticipation of realizing his dream as only 4/5days kept him apart. And true to his relentless drive and perseverance, on June 16, Mangal landed in Hilsa, Humla, completing the GHT in 88 days. The news took the Mtb scene by storm. Mangal had accomplished the impossible—blazing a trail in the annals of Nepal’s mountain biking history! “Hats off to Mangal. He has pulled off an incredible feat, paved the way for future Mtb aspirants to GHT, and thrown wide the door to promoting tourism in the most remote, hitherto untapped trails.” Chimmi Urkyen Gurung, past NCA president. (Mr. Gurung, a doyen of mountain biking in Nepal, journeyed to Everest Base Camp and Kala Pathar twice on his bike in the 90s). [email protected]

Shishir and I'd turned in for the night in our tent on the pine-studded Mahesh Narayan hill. I'm a light sleeper; Shishir was sleeping like a log. A scratching sound suddenly awakened me; my mobile showed the time at 3 am. I listened with bated breath—nothing. Maybe I was mistaken; I curled into my sleeping bag and tried to go back to sleep. It sounded again, and I was sure it came from very close. My imagination ran riot—a leopard, perhaps? Hey, what do you know? It turned out to be an accursed rat as I trained my flashlight on it through the tent's mesh vent. The weather the next day at eight in the morning felt fresh, and the sweet-smelling pines cloaked in the thick fog had a revitalizing effect on me. “Good morning, the weather looks great,” I said. Shishir just smiled and busied himself with dismantling the tent. My eyes then fell on the flysheet that had collected a little dew water, almost half a liter; I hastened and spooned it into a bottle, confident we could drink it as we carried Aquatabs. As I checked for something to eat for breakfast, I saw Shishir holding a plastic bag and picking something up—turned-out trash strewn about the site. Not ours, though! Previous campers had littered the site. Soon, it looked spotless. None of us friends understood Shishir, who often relapsed into one of his eccentricities. A man of few words, he liked to call himself the Super Tramp. Like a friend said, nobody could fathom Shishir—only Shishir understood Shishir. Well said. The trash left by others was 10-times ours. But that did not bother Shishir. He did that every time he camped. "Great job," I called out to him. And as expected, he just smiled back. Soon, we were munching on last night's leftover khichadi—our breakfast. With the packing of our gear done and a last-minute check, we left for the Gupteswor Mahadev. On the way, Shishir stopped to click at something, which turned out, a fallen tree stump with a brace of wild mushrooms on top, looking like purple cabbage. I'd seen nothing like it. A thick fog enveloped us as we hit the singletrack across the tall pines, visibility 10 feet across but far better than the previous night. It was a brief ride to the Mahesh Narayan Shrine and took 20 minutes. The elevation commanded a view of fog-shrouded, lush northern hills. A three-foot-tall cave-like hollow enclave lodged the deity on the face of a sheer granite hill. There was no idol, only a jumble of vermillion-streaked rocks in odd sizes and shapes. A string of bells and a trident stood by their side; more bells hung by the roof. A little further, another opening gave an impression of a cave. Shishir crawled and wriggled through the narrow gap to investigate. I could see his derriere in the beam of my headlamp. I remained out because caves gave me the jitters. He managed some five ft. into the crack and looked around to see if it went any further. All this time, I just watched. He was out soon. Not a cave; maybe it was once, he said. Shishir then scouted around for the trail to Gupteswor Mahadev. He found none. The steep crude stone steps that led to the shrine had caved. A dang dogged guy, Shishir never gave up, easy. He knew the cave lay some 200 meters down. He nimbly stepped on fallen rocks like a mountain goat, dropped to the bottom, and disappeared into the heavy undergrowth. After 20 minutes, he was back, and my hunch proved correct. He had failed to track down the cave and the Gupteswor Mahadev shrine. After 200 meters, the trail under heavy cover vanished, he said; he could go no further, tried as he did to spare no effort. He was mighty surefooted about the place when we planned the trip, and he had been there two years back. So much for my friend Super Tramp's itching desire to explore the mysterious cave of Gupteswor Mahadev! [email protected]

For three years in a row, an old friend, Khashing Rai, and I planned to cycle to Kalinchok, Dolakha, but something would always come up, and our long-coveted tour would be scrapped. Our trip finally saw the light of day in 2014. I couldn’t wait to get started. The first leg of our journey included a drive to the hill-town Dolakha, Charikot, some 183km from Kathmandu—a six-hour drive with frequent stops for tea, refreshment, dal-bhat, and the breathtaking landscapes. Next day, our epic cycling on the Makaibari to Kuri route kicked off, in what was a 17km dirt road uphill climb to 3,450m. It was the most grueling off-roading of my life—with about 60 percent shoving. Khashing, close to half my age (I was 61 then), took it in his stride but soon followed suit when the near-vertical inclines seemed impossible. It took almost seven hours to get to Kuri by sundown. Early the next day, we hit the trail on foot to Kalinchok (3,842m), a knee-buckling climb on winding fieldstone steps. Today, a cable car whisks you to the temple in 10 minutes. After paying homage to Goddess Kalinchok Bhagwati, we took a brief respite, marveling at the chain of parading snow-clad mountains. The iconic Gauri Shankar (7,134 m) stole the show—and my heart. Absolute bliss! After dal-bhat at Kuri, we made it to Makaibari by 4 pm, and after stowing the bikes in my car, we left for Kathmandu. Darkness closed in as we sped past the town of Thulo Pakhar; the highway appeared near-deserted. As we cruised down a gradient, we could see distant lights way down. A milestone read Khadi Chaur, 7-km. I stayed alert behind the wheels as we navigated the dark, tricky highway past a maze of twists, loops, and hairpins followed by wooded hills down a steep slope—the time past eight pm. What tarnation! Unawares, a motorbike appeared out of the blue with a blazing headlight. In the wrong lane, the bike was headed straight towards our car. A headlong collision seemed inevitable. In a flash, I swerved to the right, missing the incoming bike by a hair’s breadth, and swung the steering wheel on the double to my left, hitting hard on the brake pedal as the right had a sheer drop. The rear tires skidded with an ear-splitting squeal. With a sinking heart, I realized the right rear tire had veered off and overshot the road perimeter, and within seconds, the car started sliding rearward down the ridge. Next followed a loud bang from the front, and before Khashing and I could gather our wits, the car lurched to a stop. Horrified, I watched the windshield crack and crackle in slow motion, but it held on. For several seconds we stayed put in pitch darkness—shell-shocked. I took a deep breath and asked Khashing if he was okay. He nodded. I was, too—not a scratch. The car, propped at a 45-degree angle, rested on a tree and what appeared like a stump. Still reeling under trauma, Khashing held on to the grab-handle lest he topple over me; I lay pinned down to the right car door, facing the steep drop. We stayed glued to our seats for several minutes without flinching a muscle, fearing so much as a slight commotion might trigger a slide down the drop. Khashing looked at me questioningly as my mind raced what to do next. Khashing got off first, cautiously avoiding any jerky motion. As my side was a no-go, he next helped me get out by pulling my hand. That was the scariest moment for us. We had no choice but to lock the car and leave. A passing-by truck gave us a lift to Khadi Chaur. We checked into a lodge as no help was possible at that late hour. We visited the crash site early the following day. Whatever vague pictures, imagery, and chaos of the previous night fell into place, and the gravity of the crash stood out a mile. When I peered down the precipice, I turned white and shook like a leaf. It steeply fell some 250 meters below. What made Khashing and my jaws drop was the dramatic way the car with a smashed right fender came to rest on a solitary tree and a stump with both left-side tires suspended in mid-air. No other trees flanked the ridge for quite some distance. A coincidence? A fluke? Our destiny? Or was it the grace of Kalinchok Bhagwati that saved our lives? mansinghravi@gmail.com