Markha Valley trek to 17,500 ft

In north India's Markha Valley, two friends and I pushed to the summit of probably the highest mountain I ever want to climb. On the final day, one friend developed such bad altitude sickness that we didn't know whether he'd continue. But he did. We all made it to the top!

The night before the big push, none of us slept a wink because we were camped at 15,000 feet, higher than any location in the continental United States. Our eyelids would close and a few minutes later, we'd wake up gasping for air. (At that altitude, air is about 40% less dense than at sea level.)

The next morning, we left camp before 6 am, working to stay ahead of the slushy slippery late-morning snow that develops in this area during spring. I was determined to beat the horses to the summit. (We had six horses carrying our belongings.) So I pushed ahead, shouting one syllable of my mantra with each step: "I can do this." Before I knew it, I was at the top, peering out across the Himalayan range, standing beside Tibetan flags flittering at the top of the pass.

But one of my friends, at least 1,000 vertical feet from the summit, was in bad shape. Understatement. (Some people just don't acclimatize to high elevations easily. And it often has nothing to do with physical fitness. I, for instance, had been sitting in front of my computer in Delhi for the past several months.) He was vomiting, exhausted, relentlessly dizzy. In a heroic effort, he trudged one foot in front of the other, dragging himself to the top. Note to self: He wins at least 100 points in the game of life.

Looking back on our hike to 17,500 feet, one word comes to mind: Winded. Blasted by the late morning breeze sweeping across Ladakh's Himalayan slopes. Heaving gulpfuls of air in an attempt to continue pushing upwards. Winded.

And the view from the top? Stunning. Retina-burning. Breathtaking—although perhaps too literally.

Ladakh redux

On the evening of bin Laden's assassination, two friends and I wandered pretty darn close to Pakistan in northern India's Ladakh. The U.S. Embassy in Delhi had sent an email to all ex-pats, urging them "to limit their travel outside of their homes." Pssshhh. Whether or not it was safe, we vetoed. We scampered off to one of the highest motorable pass in the world, organized a 5-day trek up a 17,500-foot peak, played with newborn alpine lambs, explored a crumbling Buddhist monastery, sipped cappuccino with a commanding officer of the Indian army, followed a Tibetan lama to his ancestral homeland, and stood aside furry two-humped camels in a Himalayan desert. Definitely glad we didn't stay at home.
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Kids grow up fast in India

When I was seven years-old, I watched Sesame Street and drew in a coloring book. I also talked to my stuffed animals. (Shelly the technicolor dinosaur puppet was a great conversation partner.)

In India, many seven year-olds are holding down jobs. They’re helping their shopkeeper parents, driving tractors on family farms, or selling magazines on the streets. I recently met a camel driver in Rajasthan who looked seven or eight years-old. He spoke three languages—English, Hindi, and a local dialect—and guided caravans of obstinate camels with ease, lightly tugging at their reigns, transitioning them from trot to run. Pretty amazing. What were you doing at age seven?

Imagine if Victoria's Secret were run by salesmen this young.

Up-close elephants

Elephants seem incredibly friendly, like mammoth furless Golden Retrievers with trunks. (And, yes, I realize those are probably the last words of people who get trampled by elephants.) To be honest, elephants remind me a bit of my 7’ 7” high school classmate, Kenny: kind, quiet, and so big that movement appears labored. Kenny's size-25 shoes stretched from Shaq’s size-23 shoes tended to make even walking tough.

Up-close images captured the gentleness of elephants best. Here are some of my faves, taken in the state of Kerala. Note the one with tears. For more elephant photos, check out my friend’s post.

Window seat on an Indian train

Since the nightmare in sleeper class, train travel in India has been generally pleasant. Phew. On an overnight train along India’s southwest coast, I gripped a handle bar near an open door and stuck my head out.  Here are the shots.

My southern love, Kochi

Four-foot dosas make my lips smack. So do hundreds of piles of ginger drying in the sun. Put those in the capital city of arguably the cleanest state in India, and my inner tourist says, “ZING!”

Welcome to Kochi, the first large Indian city that I didn’t find overwhelming. (I call the Golden Triangle—an ever-popular tourist route through Delhi, Agra and Jaipur—the Oppressive Indian Cities Triangle.) In south India’s Kochi, there are garbage cans on the sidewalks, parks with vibrant foliage, and fresh coats of pastel-colored paint on buildings. There also seem to be more stray goats than stray dogs. And the goats, incidentally, help keep the city clean by snacking on old posters and discarded paper products. (Who knew that animals like to chow down on paper fiber? Cows do it here, too.)

The environment in Kochi is so chill that groups of police sit around drinking chai all day. Well, I guess police do that everywhere in India.

I tried eating the whole thing. Fail. Maybe I shouldn't have ordered eggs, too.

Check out that cute goat. She's looking at me but thinking about those yummy paper products behind her.

Oh, Indian police. If they're not taking bribes, they're sipping chai.

An auto-rickshaw driver passes by the door of a Catholic church in Kochi.

At a spice processing facility, men carried dozens of piles of ginger, recently dried in the sun, indoors.

Afterwards, the ginger crew swept the courtyard.