Days 22 to 29
Highest elevation: 12,631 ft (3,850 m) 
Lowest elevation:  5,826 ft (1,776 m)

Since we had arrived to Gatlang at dusk, when the cows were literally coming home, we took the next morning to explore its narrow paths lined with wood and stone homes. The gregarious hostess of the Paldor Peak Lodge packed us an awesome lunch to go: chapattis (thick flour tortillas), hard boiled eggs from her chickens, tomatoes, and a hearty spinach-like green locally known as saag picked from her garden moments before. 

After a strenuous uphill straight out of town, we were happy to find our way to a rumored cheese factory in order to add to the localvore picnic. With no sign, we identified it by laundry lines of cheese cloths flapping in the breeze like oversized prayer flags. The place billowed smoke from a fire blazing under a huge cauldron of future cheese being constantly stirred by an employee, driving home the point that our proudly-purchased local product consumes a heck of a lot of firewood in a country that is rapidly deforesting. 

We continued up, following a switchbacking road and taking shortcut trails between them as the terrain allowed. Two nice men slowed down to pace with us, through basic English we understood that they were on their way to a distant village for work. When we reached a kharka, a meadow used for summertime grazing with basic rock wall shelters, we decided to call it a day. Unfortunately, the water tap installed on the side of the road was completely dry. Quite fortunately, the local guys were there to point us down a path that eventually led to a trickle of water that we never would have found on our own, thus making our camping endeavor feasible. They continued, no doubt at a much faster pace without us, over a pass and down to a village we would reach the next day.

Despite the sun disappearing early and the cold settling in, it felt good to be camping on our own, partially justifying the weight and bulk of the tent. Dinner, on the other hand, was no scrumptious dal bhat. Our attempt to make passable spaghetti was foiled by dumping a dry tomato soup packet on the noodles, which promptly clumped up into goo balls. The stars were amazingly bright and the next morning the sun lit up Langtang Peak, which had been watching over our progress for a couple of weeks now. 

Crossing the kharka, a skinny dog with a slight limp appeared out of nowhere and adopted us, following Matt's heels diligently as we huffed our way up to the pass. Just before we crested it, our new friend ditched us and went ahead. While Matt chatted with some porters taking a break, learning that the men were carrying 45 kilos (99 pounds) and the women had 25-30 kilos (55-66 pounds), I found the poor old guy also resting in the sun and filled a ziplock bag with water which he promptly lapped up. After also feeding him a pack of coconut cookies, I expected him to follow us down the other side, but he didn't budge, even when I called him. While it may have been fun to continue our trek with a dog companion, I suppose it would have complicated things a bit in terms of lodging and food.

We descended steeply across road switchbacks much like how we ascended the other side, then followed a dirt road being improved for mining operations to a strip of homes called Somdang. The friendliness of the young man running the Somdang Valley Hotel convinced us to stay there, and his cooking was delicious as well. With a short, mostly downhill day, it was lovely to have a relaxing afternoon sitting in the sun, drinking cardamom tea, and watching toddlers play completely unsupervised, chickens squabble, and two old men painstakingly constructing a stone wall without any form of mortar.

Our rest turned out to be preemptive for our unexpectedly long next day. We hiked up a road that had been abandoned to the whim of landslides due to impassable terrain near the next pass. Here the trail narrowed to a body-width band that clung to the steep cliffy hillside. We knew we had reached the pass when we were hit by the full force of a cold wind. People are not the only entity that use passes as the easiest way through the mountains, weather is just as lazy as we are! The new hotel we had planned on staying at was actually not quite finished and the wind made the prospect of camping seem less than ideal, so we abandoned the idea of a packless day hike up the ridgeline to a viewpoint from the pass. We said farewell to Langtang Peak for good this time, also taking a minute to marvel at the distance we had covered since the trail descending from Gosainkunda to Thulo Saybru was still visible from this vantage point.

It took until dusk to descend more than 5,000 feet on a rough, nearly vertical trail to the town of Laptong. We were beat and my left knee had started to rebel against the big steps down. We had finally left heavily-touristed territory as indicated by the absence of guesthouses. Quite conveniently though, a man with excellent English greeted us as we passed by, introduced himself as Som, and inquired about our plan for lodging, while also offering his home for the night. We hesitated, not sure whether he was just being polite or actually wanted us to stay with him. Once he mentioned he was a teacher and frequently hosted foreign volunteers and the occasional trekker, we decided this would be a cool opportunity and followed him through millet fields to his home. 

There was only initial awkwardness, when he surprised his wife and live-in parents by bringing home guests, so there seemed to be a lot of lively discussion and commotion from within the house while we sat alone in the dark courtyard. After our separate room was readied, we were warmly invited in, warned to crouch down for the low porch ceiling and doorways, and served tea as we unpacked. When we were settled in, we went over to the main room where Som's mother presented us with khata, white scarves around the neck to welcome and honor guests. Then we sat on the floor with the rest of the family, watching them prepare dal bhat on an open wood-burning hearth. In between his antics to keep his one-year old happy, Som naturally shared about his life and the village in a way that only a good teacher could.

In the morning, we awoke early with the family and again sat on the floor while watching Som roll out roti (flat bread) and cook it over the open flame of the fire. Coupled with fresh eggs and instant coffee, it was a delicious breakfast. We said goodbye to the family, paid the modest bill for our stay, and followed Som to his school, which begins at 10 o'clock! What a contrast to the beginning of a typical school day in the US; here the teachers and their uniformed students all walk side by side, arriving from above, below, and within the village. We got to peek into some classrooms, all very basic, as the day was getting going. There was also the beginning of a computer lab, but first they have to get the power utility to supply electricity to the school during the day since the town currently only gets electricity at night.

After the wonderfully social, but energy intensive, homestay we got only a short breather on the trail to Tipling before seeking out our next cultural adventure. In Kathmandu, we met a lovely woman named Beni from Tipling who encouraged us to pay a visit to her parents when we passed through. A friend and co-worker of Beni that was visiting home for a week graciously brought us to their home and introduced us. We were welcomed inside by the fire and served tea of course. Even though we said we had eaten recently, Beni's mother and our spontaneous-visit facilitator began preparing lunch for us. The mother left the house for a little while and returned with a pail of milk from the water buffalo in the field below. She boiled it and served it to us, certainly the freshest and creamiest milk we had ever tasted! 

Beni's father was also sitting by the fire with a visiting relative all the while. While we noticed that the two of them were jovial, we did not realize the source of this was morning drinking until the cheeriness gave way to snoring naps by the fire. Since the father is the lama of the local gompa, a small Buddhist temple, we had planned on presenting the khata scarves to him, a traditional sign of respect when meeting a lama. Unfortunately, we missed our opportunity by not anticipating that our host would check out for the day before our visit was over! The mother kindly obliged our request to see the gompa (monastery), to which we made a donation to show our gratitude for their hospitality. 

We continued on to the large village of Sertun where continuing our day of cultural immersion required some perseverance. Entering at a low corner of the village, we began looking for houses showing signs of a homestay while also asking anyone we saw where we could sleep. Their response was either to stare at us and keep walking, or giggle and run away. We had reached the top of the village with no leads when we bumped into a group of men dressed up as horses and other characters playing various musical instruments. They asked us to take their photo, offered me slices of spicy raw potato, and extended a beer bottle to Matt. He took a big swig and the exclaimed, "That is NOT beer!" Everyone laughed because it was actually local moonshine called raksi (which he detests).

One of the merrymakers, whom we later pieced together was celebrating some sort of Hindu festival, was able to point us in the general direction of a known homestay. It took several more inquires to hone in on the correct house, so we were relieved when we entered the courtyard and were welcomed in by the owner more than an hour after arriving in the town. Our host, who went by D.B., was a retired Gorkha soldier having served in the army in India. He seemed both worldly and at peace with the world, as did his wife. He offered us a tiny side room that seemed rarely used given the presence of two tremendous eight-legged roommates in a corner web. We made an agreement to leave each other alone. Even if we had engaged a catch and release plan, the wall had so many holes between the wooden slats that keeping them out would be futile.

Freed of our packs, we explored the small portion of town that we had not covered while searching for a homestay. We wandered in to a temporary health clinic set up in the local school, where volunteer doctors from Nepal, the US, Canada, and Europe had trekked in to offer their services through a program of Himalaya Health Care. It sounds like a very cool NGO with multi-faceted programs taking on various health challenges in rural Nepal, from promoting smokeless stoves in houses to specialized training for local healthcare providers.

D.B. invited three of the Nepali doctors on the trek over for dinner, so we made conversation with them while trying a new delicacy called beaten rice, basically true to its name: slightly toasted two-dimensional rice that is quite tasty. The raksi was also flowing freely and is always a source of surprise followed by amusement when I partake and Matt does not. Traditional gender roles prescribe that women do not drink while the men make up for it by drinking more than the women's share. Being the last day of work for the volunteers, we could hear from our bed that the party continued late in to the night down at their extensive tent camp below the village.

As we were departing the next morning, D.B. and his wife also presented us with white scarves that we wore down the trail until the were tangled with burrs. Our destination for the day was a riverside hot spring up a side canyon and it was totally worth the extra effort to get there. Although the only flatish spot to set up the tent was full of litter and the remnants of campfires, the pool itself was clean enough and perfectly hot. Unlike the town of Tatopani on the Tamang Heritage Trail, we had the place entirely to ourselves. I was free to wear a bikini! We refrained from skinny dipping just in case some locals decided to pay a visit. We soaked again in the evening, a little bummed that the sky was clouded over until we noticed little lights erratically zooming around. It turns out that fireflies make good substitutes for stars.

Following our camping side trip to the hot springs, we spent the evening at Rachet at a basic hotel where a strange teen with labored, harsh-sounding English was our host while the parents stayed completely behind the scenes. He had an obsession with money, first showing us his small foreign money collection and then inviting himself into our room to pepper us with questions about the cost of our every possession and what our salary was in the States. 

On the same hillside, three villages are physically separated by ravines and spiritually separated by religion. We had stopped in the Christian village (a product of decades of intensive missionary work in this region), but wandered through the Hindu village to take a peek at the Buddhist one as well. At the periphery of the Buddhist enclave, a water buffalo had been slaughtered and villagers were gathered round picking up their orders for various parts. Hindus do not consume cows or similar beasts and it is technically illegal to kills cow in Nepal, but other religions occasionally eat water buffalo or yak. On the way back to the hotel, we were invited to sit and watch our host's cousins splitting bamboo to weave into baskets and matts. They even offered us boiled potatoes and toasted soy beans as snacks while we observed. We took our leave as it started to get dark and our host then roped Matt in to playing chess with him for the rest of the evening.

Just before our host ran off to the Believer's Church that Saturday morning, we gifted him a two dollar bill for his money collection. We tried to convey how this is a special bill, but I think the significance was lost on him. Nonetheless, with a neutral facial expression and in a robotic monotone voice, he said, "I am feeling happy."

We were feeling happy too, right up until we arrived in the big town of Lapa and began looking for a local guide. We had been advised by several people that it was quite difficult to find the way to the next village of Yarsa due to a multitude of diverging trails in the forest created by woodcutters and livestock. We had expected to find an English-speaking owner at the only lodge in town, as we had in the guesthouses and homestays of even the smallest villages. Instead, we could not communicate with the owner and even if we could have, he was distracted by intense pain, which we would later learn was likely from kidney stones. Our next strategy was to wander around and hope that some kind English-speaking soul would adopt us and our mission. This strategy had worked well in China, but we had no such luck in Lapa. 

At this point, we regretted that we had not asked a friendly lodge owner in the previous town where we had stopped for tea to help us connect with a guide. We even considered leaving Lapa and hiking back to him, but we would have not been able to get there before dark. So we returned to a shop where we were quite surprised to find much-needed bottles of sunscreen and asked the young man running it if he knew the school's English teacher. He agreed to bring the English teacher to meet us later at our lodge. Not knowing if the English teacher would be of much help, we decided to pursue every idea we had in the meanwhile. 

Next up was using the shop's phone, which required standing on a rock outcrop where the whole neighborhood could see and hear us, to call a guide we had talked to about this route a few weeks earlier. He had previously mentioned he had friends in Lapa that could guide us, but the phone conversation yielded no specific names, simply the guide telling Shop Kid to find us someone who knew the way. Immediately upon hanging up, Shop Kid pointed to another kid who seemingly appeared out of nowhere, perhaps overhearing the public phone call, and told us he knew the way. We asked how many times he had walked to Yarsa and the response was, "Ten hours." We were clearly up against a language barrier, but the more significant obstacle was our first impression of him based on our Western foreigner biases. His horribly ugly wannabe urban hipster outfit, mullet-rat tail hair cut, bad teeth, and a cheesy Jesus hologram necklace added up to sleazy sketchiness in our minds. Why couldn't adorable Shop Kid, wearing his nice traditional garb, be our guide? As it turns out, the guide we called explained that we should take two people because it would be dangerous for one person to make the return trip by himself. Apparently, there is a formidable fear of "tigers" in the "jungle" we would be crossing through. We didn't know if this was really a legitimate risk factor, but arguing the point seemed like bad strategy when we were already struggling to find one willing-and-able guide. Shop Kid did indeed volunteer to be the second guide, even though it was not clear if he had ever been to Yarsa, but we still didn't trust that Random Sketchy Kid really had been there either. 

Not knowing what else to do, and not thrilled with the only option we had, we went back to the hotel just as a group of Indian Christian missionaries arrived. We explained our situation to them and one amazing doctor took us under her wing. She spoke with the hotel owner who offered up his son to be one of our guides and would find someone else to go as well. This seemed like a more reliable option than the random guy we found in town, so we went back down to the shop to cancel our meeting with the English teacher and explain that our guide situation was all taken care of, but thanks for the offer. 

After being kindly included in a feast of a dinner that the lodge prepared in honor of the missionaries, we finally got to sit down with the lodge owner and the doctor as a translator to hash out the logistics. He called in our guides to meet with us as well and who should appear but Random Sketchy Kid! Well, that figures. At this late hour of the evening, we were too exhausted to care and just wanted the whole ordeal to be over. However, we did learn that random sketchy guy's sister lives in Yarsa, giving him some credibility that he (probably) knew the way. 

The day that we had been anticipating with some trepidation started too early, waking at 5:00am for a simple breakfast that was supposed to be ready at 5:30. The boiled potatoes did not make an appearance until closer to 6:30 at which point I didn't even dare ask about the instant coffee we ordered. While we were waiting for breakfast, our guides showed up with backpacks of the same size that a first grader would proudly wear to their first day of school. This was only a problem because we had made an agreement the night before that they would carry half of our weight, since we doubted we could make the ten hour push before dark with our full packs. While the ever-helpful doctor encouraged them to fill empty rice sacks with our belongings and carry them in the Nepali style of the namlo, a headband strapped to the load, they declined this option. Not about to let them off the hook so easily, we used our extra webbing straps and carabiners to attach as many items as we could to the wee lil' backpacks. Their packs looked like a jumble of chaos by the time we were finished, and we still had to reclaim some of their designated items to put back in our own packs. 

We finally set off at 7:00am, only an hour later than we had planned, but quite timely for Nepal standards. The first couple of hours were a little awkward as none of us really made an effort to talk. After a cookie break, we all started to warm up to each other a bit. We had to practice saying their names, something along the lines Lou Baha, previously referred to as Random Sketchy Kid, and Gaine, whose name we could unfortunately remember better because it is pronounced the same as the first two syllables of gynecologist. While we referred to them as kids when talking about them to each other, we learned that they were both married with kids, not at all unusual for late teens in Nepal. Lou Baha was actually quite friendly, and with a better command of the English language, he has the potential to be a good guide. He instantly picked up on Matt's interest of place names and shared what we could see, although sadly the allegedly amazing views of the Ganesh Himal range were completely obscured with low clouds. He also took the initiative to share the names of edible berries as we ate them off the trees. Areas of improvement would be not taking us through "shortcuts" in the thick of burrs and sticker plants, and refraining from throwing rocks at wildlife that we would actually like to see, such as monkeys. 

Over the course of the day, we found the trail much easier to follow than we had been led to believe, so we were continually questioning whether our guides were even necessary. However, Lou Baha did indeed direct us off a beaten path and through a meadow to another trail heading to Yarsa, explaining that the trail we had been following went to a village way out of our way. There was no way we would have found that turn off on our own. We were pleasantly surprised to meet another American couple thru-hiking the GHT without a guide. They helped validate our decision when they shared that they had spent half of a day looking for the right trail from Yarsa to the point where we crossed paths with them.

On the final uphill push in the eleventh hour of hiking, it seemed our Nepali buddies were more worn out than we were, confirming our growing suspicion that these guys rarely carry heavy loads (and certainly not with the namlo) or walk long distances. We passed most of Yarsa to get to Lou Baha's sisters house, where we were warmly welcomed and given a room with thick rugs (and the obligatory giant spider) attached to a small Christian church, as the sister's husband is a pastor. We joined the crew in the kitchen and were surprised to be questioned, "Do you drink beer? Do you eat meat?" We answered in the affirmative, not realizing that by saying yes, we would be the only ones consuming these things while the others looked on. We did enjoy the first and only bottles of beer on our entire trek, Tuborg, brewed under license in Nepal, as well as rehydrated dried buffalo meat with delicious spices that was chewy but flavorful. 

The next morning, breakfast was equally hearty, consisting of fresh baked chapatti, omelets, and a bean and potato curry, along with some milk tea. We sat out on their porch and watched the daily routine of Yarsa unfold below us. After packing up, we paid our teenage "guides" a generous pre-determined fee based on their return trip to Lapa. Expecting to cover our costs, and if money was refused we were prepared to make an equivalent donation to the church, we asked the husband what we owed for our stay. He responded with a sum that was more than four times higher than our other homestays in the same region and twice as much as our most expensive stay in touristy Langtang. 

At first we thought that Lou Baha had mistranslated and added and extra zero to the fee. Unfortunately, that was not the case, so we asked for an itemized invoice of what we had falsely assumed was informal hospitality. By doing this, our bill was reduced to only a slightly less ridiculous amount even considering the additional cost of beer and meat. We were still quite offended by the bait-and-switch nature of our stay in a home, rather than a business, in a town that has no guesthouses. All of the positivity of our experience instantly evaporated in the shock of being taken advantage of. Nonetheless, we paid and departed with minimal politeness and great haste, but the rest of the day was tainted with a feeling of frustration. More than just the financial impact, the lasting hurt was a loss of trust in the wonderful world of homestays that we had discovered. Unlike during our previous experiences in the Ganesh Himal region, it would now be difficult to accept an offer of hospitality without hashing out the specifics of economics in advance. In contrast, with Som we were inspired to make a donation to his education-oriented NGO since our stay was quite inexpensive. With D.B., our tab was so modest that we actually insisted on paying more. 

Despite ending on a sour note, our time in the Ganesh Himal was perhaps our most vividly memorable of the trek thus far. It is a region as of yet minimally tourist-oriented, but one that may very well be on the verge of popularity as the next trekking frontier. As the widespread efforts of Christian missionaries demonstrate, the area is both remote and simultaneously shaped by outside influences. Roads already provide access to the region's fringes, such as Gatlang and Somdang, but will surely push into new territory with each passing year. Whatever the future of the Ganesh Himal may be, change seems both inevitable and eminent. 

Days 16 to 21
Highest elevation: 10,646 ft (3,245 m) 
Lowest elevation: 7,333 ft (2,235 m)

With our full packs back on, we returned to our more traditional slower pace as we climbed up the side of the wide valley mouth and around its side into to a new drainage. We stopped pretty early in the day, considering our late start, at the lodge owned by a guide we had met in Kangin Gompa. We didn't mind having an excuse for a short day though. We were the only guests at the lodge in Khangjim, a village that did not seem to get many trekkers spending the night. His wife was a sweet shy woman who seemed to mainly look after his brother who had a definitive love for the raksi (local moonshine). He may have actually driven her slightly crazy because she would echo, in sing-song voice, certain random words she would hear us say while wandering around. 

The next day we paced with a nice man leading a horse down to Lingling to buy supplies. This village along the river has road access that makes goods both more abundant and cheaper, many imported from China across a border that only locals can access for trade. Although we normally only ate snacks for lunch, he effectively convinced us to stop for lunch at his brother's place along the way. It soon became apparent why when the brother eagerly shared his tough situation with us. His wife was pregnant with twins and doctors had prescribed a hospital stay of a month prior to delivery in Kathmandu, claiming that the common practice of home birth is too risky in her case. As tenants of the land that he runs his simple restaurant on, the scale of the medical bills he was facing is astronomical. He begged us to stay the night with his family to generate more income with more meals, but being still quite early in the day we decided to continue on and opted to give an equivalent donation instead. Upon receiving the extra money, rather than expressing gratitude, he immediately asked us to sponsor his unborn children's education, the same request his horseman brother had made to us for his children already going to school. We are aware that it is a widespread perception among Nepalis that all foreign travelers are ridiculously rich and indeed we are well off compared to almost all people in this country. Still it was a bit disheartening to give what we could, especially carrying a limited supply of cash that had to last for more than two months, and have that only raise the expectation for more. 

Due to the day's interactions, we renamed this section of the trek the Tamang Charity Trail, but approaching Thuman that evening we began to understand why it is called the Tamang Heritage Trail. Following a series of chortens (Buddhist stupas) up a ridgeline, we watched women harvesting millet from the golden terraces and carrying it home in bamboo dokos (woven baskets) attached to a strap across their foreheads called a namlo. We also passed by a 10-year-old girl carrying her baby sister in a bamboo woven cradle with the same method. 

The Tamang people are one of the largest ethnic groups in the country, or castes as they are more commonly known by in Nepal. Their culture has many Tibetan aspects and one theory is that their ancestors were horse traders from Tibet who settled in Nepal.

After claiming a room at the Buddha Guesthouse, we wandered through the maze of narrow paths among traditional two-story wooden houses where livestock occupy the bottom level and a ladder provides access to the second. Intricately carved wooden windows block more light than they let in, so residents often soak up the sun on their porch when it is shining, and huddle around a wood stove in one dark all-purpose room when it is not. The stove has no chimney so smoke finds its way out first through the rafters, then a slate roof where crops, such as beans, are inevitably spread out to dry on it.

About an hour up a steep hill above Thuman, we greeted two old men resting on the side of the trail. One made gestures of asking for something and then revealed a very swollen and stiff hand. The skin between his fingers had split from the swelling and the deep cracks had become infected. There was nothing in our first aid kit that could fix this problem as he clearly needed to get to a hospital. We offered a packet of antibiotic ointment, which he carefully applied to the wounds under a great deal of pain. We were so curious as to the cause of this injury that was absolutely nauseating to look at, but they did not speak a lick of a English and unfortunately we could not speak the lingua franca of Nepali (if they even did themselves) and certainly not the language of their caste. They gestured gratitude for the ointment and we started up the hill again. We were surprised to see them following behind us since we were headed up to more remote and basic villages and going down the valley led to bigger towns with medical facilities. At this point, we gestured that they should go down, pointing to the cross on our first aid kit and looking up the words for doctor and hospital in our little, and thus far unused, Nepali dictionary. This seemed to have no effect on them as they just smiled and continued behind us. Everyday we always met many people on the trail, whether trekkers with guides or locals, so it just figures that for the couple of hours we hiked near the two old men, we did not see a single person to help us with communication. 

We kept trudging up the steep hill when they paused so the injured man could soak his hand in a cold stream, assuming we would see them pass by when we reached the next village of Nagthali. There we hoped to have someone to translate for us and learn their plan. If he was not going to a doctor for lack of money, we would have sponsored his medical costs, but without knowing his situation or intentions it did not make sense to just hand him a bunch of money without any explanation. While eating lunch, we kept our eyes peeled for the duo coming up the hill, but we never saw them arrive. I began to feel very sad and regretted that we did not stay with them until finding a translator. We will never know the cause or the consequences of his injury, but I can't help assuming the worst. 

Both the couple expecting twins and this old man were emotionally impactful examples of the scary reality the vast majority of Nepalis face when a health issue arises or an accident occurs. Of course, so many Americans can relate to their predicaments with years of criminally expensive health care and a system that protects corporations more than people. Obamacare may not be perfect, but we'll take it any day over the physical and financial inaccessibility of medical care for the people in Nepal. 

From Nagthali, we had planned to take a side trip and camp at a viewpoint of several ranges of mountains, many of the peaks across the border in Tibet. However, over the course of lunch, the clouds rolled in and the day went from warm to chilly and windy. It seemed a little silly to camp on top of a cold, windy hill with no view, so we picked the most brightly colored lodge in town and relaxed for the rest of the day, venturing no further than the simple Buddhist temple next door. 

We got an earlyish start (for us) the next morning to hike to the viewpoint, even though some low-lying clouds made the trip appear to be just as silly as the day before. Our persistence paid off when we hiked through an enchanted forest and then above the clouds to a 180 degree vista of mountains in a perfectly clear backdrop. 

After lunch back at our lodge, we continued down the other side of the pass for a couple thousand feet to Tatopani, which means hot water, appropriately named for its public hot spring. After choosing a lodge based on its advertisement for Nepali organic coffee, a reputation for excellent food, and a sunny marigold-filled yard in which to enjoy these culinary delights, we found out just how public the hot spring really is. The concrete pools were segregated by men, women, and family, with changing rooms that no one seemed to use on either end. Instead, everyone seemed to use the stadium-like bench seating to change. The women would spend literally ten to twenty minutes delayering under their outer layer, eventually approaching the pools in a sarong wrapped around them like a bath towel. On the other hand, the men would simply strip down to their skivvies in a second and jump in. Lacking a sarong, I made a modest attempt at modesty by wearing a tshirt over my bikini, but upon further observation it seems that I focused on covering up the wrong half of my body. The sarongs didn't always stay in place, shall we say, so we got flashed many more boobies than if the women had been wearing skimpy swimsuits. We also noticed that the thin cotton fabric of the sarongs tended to cling to every curve and crevasse of the body when exiting the water, ultimately making them much more revealing of sensitive areas than your standard swimsuit. Perhaps that is why the spectator seating overlooking the pools was always full! 

Besides being thoroughly fascinated with the bathing attire, we also were intrigued by people drinking the opaque orange iron-rich water and filling up bottles to go. This tatopani attracts people from near and far for its healing properties and apparently ingesting some directly can only enhance the effects, although we refrained from doing so ourselves. It also occurred to us that the old man we had met a few days earlier may have been on his way to Tatopani for some miraculous healing of his injured hand. 

We visited the hot spring three separate times during our two days there. With almost a full moon above, I thought a night soak would be a lovely idea, expecting it to be less crowded. Of course, it was actually more crowded, complete with night watchmen shining bright flashlights in the pools to enforce the gender segregation. 

After resting up in Tatopani, we moved on to another traditional village reminiscent of Thuman called Gatlang, which was our last stop on the Tamang Heritage Trail. Along the way, the only incident of note was almost getting trampled by mating cows. The male mounted the female as they were trotting down the trail that we were heading up. She was not pleased, so she took off running straight at me with the male still on top. I jumped off the trail just in time, luckily into a nice flat field, rather than off the typical brushy and rocky ledge that we were usually hiking along. I guess you never know what will give you a little adrenaline rush when exploring Nepal!

Days 10 to 15
Highest elevation: 12,565 ft (3,830 m) 
Lowest elevation: 8,054 ft (2,455 m)

By the time we had wrapped up communication with my family regarding my grandpa's passing, we left Thulo Syabru late morning in the heat of the day, sweating our way downhill to a dramatic suspension bridge leading to the lowest reaches of Langtang Valley. The jungle-like vegetation provided some relief from the sun, but the humidity persisted as we now began our climb up the river. We enjoyed a proper picnic next to a waterfall, a spread of nak cheese, a loaf of bread from a local bakery, veggie and potato momos, and the last of our Cadbury chocolate hauled in from Kathmandu. 

Given our late start, we snagged the last of four rooms in an intimate lodge nested in the forest near Rimche just before it was fully dark. We sat in the kitchen and sipped raksi, a moonshine commonly made of fermented millet or other available grains, while observing the dal bhat preparations conducted by various family members sitting on the floor. After dinner, we chatted with Karma, their charismatic thirteen year old with an impressive command of English who would be returning to boarding school in Kathmandu at the end of a holiday break for two Hindu festivals, Daisan and Tihar. Since their family is Buddhist and of Tibetan heritage, the time off from school is comparable to Christmas break for Jewish kids. 

When Karma mentioned that he wants to be an artist, I dug out my watercolor pencils and paper for him and his two younger cousins. The cousins both drew helicopters and helipads, leading to a suspicion that perhaps boys in Nepal want to be helicopter pilots when they grow up kind of like American boys dream of being professional sports players. On the other hand, Karma drew a detailed rose surrounded by a heart, which he gifted to me the next morning, convincing Matt that he had a crush on me. 

Since we would return to this spot after going up and down the valley, we took the opportunity to leave our camping gear and a few other extras behind. We continued up the forested trail, loving the new lightness of our packs, and it began to drizzle. When we finally decided it would be smart to put on our rain jackets, it stopped as soon as we got our packs back on and started hiking again. 

Shortly after taking our jackets off, a local woman with a young child looked particularly excited to see us as we approached. She greeted us enthusiastically and explained that she had been looking for us. We were a bit taken aback and confused until we figured out that she owned a guesthouse further up the valley. Yesterday, we stopped her nephew on the trail to inquire about some strange looking structures underneath an overhang cliff that turned out to be honeybee hives. Matt also asked him for a recommendation of where to stay and he gave us the name of his aunt's guesthouse. After we parted ways, he apparently went a step further and called his aunt to alert her to potential customers. She had walked several hours down the trail just to meet us, thus guaranteeing we would stay at her place and not get snatched up by another recruiter. This was our first insight into how competitive this trekking area gets for the opportunistic business of independent trekkers. 

We now had a spontaneous guide and porter since she insisted on carrying my pack as well. When we asked her how long to her place, not sure we wanted to hike so far in one day, she responded, "One house." Hmmm... We were flying up the trail and making good time except for the tea stops that we normally pass up. To be polite, we agreed to a cup at her sister's place and also ordered a delicious "apple pie," more like a fried apple-filled doughnut. Then not much further along, we met her brother at his lodge, who insisted we take a rest, which really meant buying some tea from him. 

We were well hydrated by the time we got above treeline, having walked from summer, through fall, to winter all in one day. Just as strange, we watched a family of langur monkeys playing on the boulders of the rocky slopes, far from the lush forest we associate with monkey habitat.

We finally reached her guesthouse and met her husband, son, and daughter. It was a new place and quite nice. Instead of relaxing (or beginning dinner preparations), she fretted about whether another group of tourists, whom she had been harassing in good nature throughout the day, would succumb to other lodging temptations. She claimed that she rarely got business because most trekkers push on to the larger town just past their "suburb" community. 

The next morning she took it a bit too far, insisting that she make a reservation for us at her sister's lodge at the highest village of Kangin Gompa. We said we would take a look but did not want to commit to anything until we got there. She then gave us a small plastic bag and asked us to deliver it to her sister. When Matt started to open it to see what was inside, she told him not to. Of course, as soon as we left, we opened it to find a half-eaten mostly rotten apple. This was clearly a ploy to make us feel obligated to go to her sister's place, which had the exact opposite effect on us.

Before reaching Kangin Gompa, a village that is not really a village but a large collection buildings that are either guesthouses or other tourist-oriented businesses, we had heard several sob stories and pleas to stay at such and such lodge. We were dreading even walking in to the town at that point, so we headed directly to a guesthouse set apart up on the hill next to the town's namesake monastery and settled in. Without our backpacks to incriminate us as new arrivals, we then enjoyed walking around the town. Upon dutifully delivering the half-eaten apple to the sister, she informed us that she had kept the best room open for us in anticipation of our arrival. We explained that we did not ask for a reservation to be made and left before any more weirdness could occur.

Despite the amazing view of mountains lining the valley to be had from Kangin Gompa, the next day we made an all-day walk further up the valley in search of more. We crossed paths with a team of scientists researching glacial retreat and other effects of climate change, particularly exciting because we had visited their Glacier Documentation Center the day before. Staffed by local women, the intent of the small room of displays is to share results and raise awareness among trekkers and the local communities. Climbing to the top of an old terminal moraine as our turnaround point, we got a distant glimpse of one of the glaciers under study, surrounded by beautiful snowy peaks of course. Hiking at top speed on the return, we witnessed the full show of sunset as we approached town. 

Since we had hiked for eight or so hours on our "rest day," we opted for one more day actually relaxing (translation: doing laundry by hand and actually taking a shower) before heading down the valley in a single long push. We stopped at a nak cheese factory and bakery where profits benefit community projects, and while chatting with the baker, discovered he is also the brother of the pushy sister! We prepared to blow by her place, not wanting to have the conversation about not staying with the apple sister, but of course she was perched on a bench right along the trail waiting to snag passing trekkers. Surprisingly, she did not bring it up, but rather encouraged us to stop for some fresh curd (nak milk yogurt). There must have been a big batch delivered because we were offered the same at every lodge all the way down the valley. We finally caved in at her other brother's place and the two bowls we ordered were indeed fresh and delicious.

In the lower valley there seemed to be the opposite problem regarding lodging. As we walked through a concentration of guesthouses called Lama Hotel, we were completely ignored. The lack of recruitment could only mean one thing: the town was totally booked up. Rimche was no different. Even our favorite little place that had held our excess belongings was full. We were offered sleeping space in the kitchen, but instead opted for setting up our tent for the first time on this journey, falling asleep to the sound of the rushing river and waking up to birdsong and the owners chasing monkeys out of their vegetable garden.

The highlights of Langtang included trekking through a progression of ecotones as we gained elevation up the valley, conversations over dal bhat dinners with interesting travelers from the US, UK, Switzerland, Germany, and Israel, and picnic lunches of local cheese and bread. The volume of foreign trekkers and the subsequent competitive dependence on tourism was both fascinating and challenging to deal with. On the one hand, catering to tourists with nice lodges and treats made the trek feel very comfortable, but the forwardness and at times aggressiveness of the proprietors also made us feel like we were just walking wallets. Was their friendliness genuine or just a necessity for their business to survive? I believe we encountered plenty of both depending on the situation.

After repacking our full load of gear, we were ready to split off from the Langtang trail and see what the Tamang Heritage trail had in store for us.