Cleansing Waters

The year was 1993, and the names of the towns escape me now. We had come over French Pass at 17,000 feet a few days before. This day was earmarked as a rest day, and many from our group were planning to hike to a small town, where a religious festival was talking place. Our porter wanted to carry my day pack, but I told him to rest and not worry about my wife and me. He was only about five feet tall, but he had been carrying eighty pounds a day for two weeks wearing flip flops over rocky terrain.

We were in Nepal on a month long trek around MT. Dhaulagiri, an eight thousand meter, Himalayan peak. The trip was more than I could have hoped for: It was athletic, fun, social, and sensual. The mountains were stunning, the air sweet, and the people of Nepal warm and friendly.

As we approached the festival town, we passed pilgrims propelling themselves on their knees in between bows. Some had traveled hundreds of miles this way! When I reached a Hindu temple, I was anointed with paint on my forehead and given some holy cloth. A friendly man approached me and asked if I wanted to walk through the spiritual holy waters. I said yes, and he led me to 108 faucets of cold water. I ran through them all and then immersed myself in two deep pools of ice cold water. The water felt good after hiking for two weeks, and I indeed felt cleansed. The man who had invited me to go through the waters was smiling broadly with me, and I felt a deepening connection with this small country I had looked forward to visiting for so many years.

We camped on the edge of the Mustang Region, an area that was closed to foreign travelers in those days. At night the wind picked up, and the temperature dropped. I lay secure in my tent with stars overhead and the feel of spiritual water still in my skin. Sometime during the night I thought I heard chanting as I drifted in and out of sleep in this land of mystery, peace, and gentle people.