In the Realm of Mountain Gods: The Trek to Magnificent Mount Gangkhar Puensum
FIELD REPORT
Karma Dorji, Travel Programs Coordinator, Bhutan Himalaya Expeditions
The ever-smiling Ap Tashi, our Lead Horseman for the Gangkhar Puensum Treks.
With thoughtful itineraries honed since 1999, we unveil the depths of Bhutan's happiness philosophy, the daily physical adventures through the beautiful Himalayan landscape complemented by the intimate and in-depth cultural experiences sensitively curated for you every day.
Through the eyes of a select few informed leaders we saw the dilemmas of a culture: A hitherto sheltered nation discovering the arguments for and against remaining a cloistered society in this 21st Century. I loved the adventure, and I loved the discovery. Unlike anything else I have ever experienced!
Lola W., California
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Green ferns and forests, and mountains upon mountains greet the trekker on the trail to Mount Gangkhar Puensum.
We are driving through an early unseasonal downpour, and the mountains are green, quiet, and glistening during a break in the rain. The rain is a worrying sign for our trek to Mount Gangkhar Puensum, but it’s a welcome baptism for the Bhutanese spring of 2024. Much of the season has been grey from the haze of forest fires and, I suspect, the smoke of thousands of small, unregulated slash-and-burn fires started by isolated farmers across the country. Such cultivators cling to the old ways of burning all remaining plant debris to make way for new growth. But now, the world cleansed by the late spring showers, a pall has lifted. The beauty of the stunning springtime landscape shines through in a world made new. The late-season rhododendrons are bright splashes against the vibrant green, reminiscent of the sensual roses the artist Frida Kahlo loved to draw. “I paint flowers so they will not die,” she once famously said.
Traveling from the West to the heart of Bumthang where we will start hiking towards the majestic, unpredictable Mount Gangkhar Puensum, we first descend into the dense broccoli floret jungles of Rukubji in the Ngyala region. These forbidding forests were once so dark that, in the middle of the day, the light of the sun would be snuffed out by the tree canopies above the ancient trails. Faint-hearted travelers lay down and expired from fright on those jungle-darkened trails, giving rise to the tales of a demon who ate men’s entrails and sucked their souls. But today, the only unnatural thing that’s doing the eating is our comfortable four-wheel drive, sucking the entrails of the winding and looping black tarmac highway to the east.
May 10
Our drive to the trailhead winds through misty green forests, braiding the course of the green-and-white Chamkharchhu River. From breaks between forests and farms, green pines and open meadows, the river’s roar rises and fades. At the trailhead, we ready our packs as the light rain simmers, or is it merely mist made manifest? We start... it rains. Then it stops. We pass the Khakthang army camp where they inspect our permits, and where an eager—and clearly lonely—Indian military man follows us partway up the trail, scrutinizing the hikers, especially the women. I have seen this lost-puppy behavior before at other far-flung outposts on our trekking routes where Indian and Bhutanese military men work together to secure the border with China. “May I come with you?” he says, eyes pleading, or mocking, I’m not sure which. I smile but say nothing, for the man well knows he cannot leave his post. The early wet season has pockmarked the muddy trails with deep gashes filled with mud and brown liquid, dung, and flies. The hooves of our horses dig deep holes into hard-packed trails turned to mush, making sucking sounds as they extricate. Farther up, the Indian jawan trails off, a forlorn figure, his eyes following our backs. The green valley narrows, and we stay on the twisting trail always keeping left, ignoring the shiny new bridge leading to the right side of the valley that has misled some groups toward a very different, unanticipated trek.
At midday, we eat beside the river—fresh chicken fried to crisp mouthfuls; chow mein; rice and buttered asparagus, broccoli, and carrots. And, finally, from our tall camp flasks, we pour and sip sweet milk tea prepared earlier this morning by our camp chef Sonam. Energized by the meal, we point our noses upriver once more, feet like metronomes, keeping left on the mud and rock-strewn trail climbing and rising steadily next to the loud and noisy river engorged by the recent rain. Some two hours later we reach an oxbow lake where Himalayan Buddhism’s presiding prophet, the Guru Padmasambhava, is believed to have cleaved a “lake” from the river, and the small green lagoon of water truncated from the tumbling waters of the glacial Chamkharchhu is pointed out as evidence of this miracle.
May 11
Straight out of camp, we climb a steep, rocky, winding staircase carved into the mountainside by more than a millennium of trudging feet. The ancient flagstone steps take us up through shimmering green tree canopies, the sun scattering dappled light through the leaves. Sunlight on the river winks at us from far below the trail and, from the slopes above, their sources hidden, a myriad streams run like ropes of milk down the faces of furry, otherworldly boulders covered in thick blankets of wet moss. We pass small stands of bamboo and tall forests of firs, pine, and rhododendrons glittering with the pearls of last night’s rain. The undergrowth is dense with rotting trees sinking back into humus, and fronds of delicately waving fern.
Three from our crew—two of our leads and one guest—have headed back down the mountain today. We’re sorry to see them go, but it’s the best decision for everyone.
Guests hiking through an otherworldly forest of fir and ferns.
Breakfast this morning was toast, oatmeal porridge, honey, jam, fried eggs, Chuniding Foods peanut butter, tea, coffee, milk, and french fries hot from the kitchen, served by Chef Sonam, and delivered by camp assistant Kinley. Our camp chef, Sonam, is a plump, round figure. It’s said in these mountains that you don’t want a skinny trekking chef, for well-fed cooks mean everyone will eat well. We keep left of the brawling, coiling river, and continue up the mountain, passing some impressive boulder river embankments, a local engineering feat. Finally, past midday, we cross a suspension bridge to the right where we meet the season’s first cordyceps hunters coming down the mountain. One of them shows us three precious cordyceps mushrooms in the palm of his hand. The strange symbiosis of fungus and worm that produces Cordyceps sinensis is among nature’s enduring curiosities, a valuable gift of these mountains that has turned fortunes and made many poor highlanders rich overnight.
May 12
Today, we arrive at a crossroads in the mountains after our grueling, five-hour walk. Two major tributaries of the Chamkharchhu River tumble down the steep valleys to meet at the confluence edged by green yak meadows dotted with pine and fir where native yaks and visiting ponies graze together on the tough mountain grass. The place is ringed by green, forested slopes, and the jagged, snowcapped peaks beyond. The most noticeable feature here is a steep and craggy cliff that splits the landscape like a defensive fortress or a castle—indeed, many native yak herders believe it is just that, the home of their primal guardian deity—straddling this location where mountains, rivers, and valleys meet. Such places are said to have powerful spirits, none more so than the one who resides inside this spectacular, rocky citadel. Native herders call the spirit Tshampa Braktsen, a name that means the “Supernatural Protector Cliff of Tshampa.” One may not pass such places without first making offers to the local “Tsen,” or deity of the mundane plane. We pay attention and make our first act—after setting up camp—an offering of sacred libations called Serkim to the hoary old spirit. The skies darken and grumble, but the rain is held at bay, an indication that we’ve successfully pleased the supernatural force, for the time being. We camp next to where the two rivers meet, below a new temple that looks down on the “Y” where the rivers join to become the Chamkharchhu. The local hermit who helps us with our libation offerings is Lama Geley Wangdi, 58, from Chhokhortoe, a valley two full days of walking downriver. He has lived in Tshampa for 11 years, praying and meditating alone. Senior Army Sergeant Namgay Wangdi, 59, visits him periodically from the nearby army border outpost to help the lama in his holy prayers and sacrifices by gathering and splitting the monk’s firewood. I meet the burly army Sergeant outside the hermit’s hut. He’s thwacking away at the logs and chipping them into neat piles of dry firewood. That evening, the sight of a small blue curl of smoke rising from the lone hermit’s hut—a telltale sign of the brotherhood of soldier and monk.
A colorful landscape of sacred rocks and hidden mountains where the rich mythology leaches into the everyday.
May 13
Three of our pack horses ate some poisonous plants in the night and are now sick, drunken, and listless. They keep falling down. Ap Tashi and Kuenzang, our two lead horsemen, are struggling to feed the horses a time-honored local antidote: a strange concoction of sugar, water, and human piss (yes, you read that right). Someone has to stay with the sick horses, so we’re down one horse leader, proving the wisdom of bringing more people than we need on this expedition. The remaining horses loaded up, we cross back over the wooden bridge and carry on up the right side of the river, climbing up a series of interlocking spurs and mountains, breathing hard in the thin mountain air, grateful for the morning sun on our backs. Snow doves scatter like white sparks against the dark green slopes as we climb toward Gangkhar Puensum’s Basecamp. We pass empty yak herders’ stone huts and enter dense conifer forests, the ground mossy and loamy, exuding an ancient wet smell from the birth of the world itself. After what seems like forever, the valley opens into a wide “V,” with wispy clouds stretching like dragons into the distant blue horizon between the towering mountains.
In this quiet, sacred space, ravens are the most vocal residents. What do these mystic birds of the Pleistocene make of the solitary figure threading his way up the valley behind the larger group? Their harsh voices ring in the clear mountain air. Ravens, celebrated in Bhutan, have been recorded at 20,600 feet on Mount Everest. They are found in the arctic circle as well as crowded cities, Pacific Islands, and the deserts of Africa. In Bhutan, they’re celebrated as heralds of victory; they grace the king’s crown. My grandmother in the fertile rice-terrace-ringed Mangde valley—some 200 miles to the southwest—trusted their calls to announce her arriving guests who often appeared at her door before she’d finished preparing the welcome drink or meal!
It's the peak of the springtime yak-calving season and we see evidence of new life budding all around us. Young calves, barely days old, bleat in the clear mountain air as they follow their mothers on shaky legs; one of the yak mothers on the trail in front of us, her trembling calf trying to keep up with her, still has a long, wet rope of placenta hanging from her rear. Golden buttercups push up from the ground. I have read that light refracted by the starch in the buttercups travels through the pigments twice, giving them the rich yellow color that’s so pleasing to our eyes. The secret of the buttercups is that they use this transmutation of light to catch an insect’s eye to spread and propagate their seed, yet another evidence of primordial life forces at work around us. There’s such a beauty and apparent stillness in the world. Yet, underneath the surface quiet, nature is hard at work, growing, spreading its wings like a newly emerging butterfly, breathing fresh life into all budding things, making the clouds move across the skies, the sun warm our backs, weaving with infinite seen and unseen threads the stunning web of life that sustains us all, animating the tiniest bugs scurrying across the forest floor, the magnificent raptors riding the thermal air currents in the fathomless sky above us.
Deep within the folds of the mountains, an unlikely pairing of a soldier and a monk.
The team takes a break for lunch beside the trail, en route to Mt. Gangkhar Puensum.
As I pass more yak herders’ huts up the trail—all empty this time of year—the sky darkens, and the mountains that looked like a postcard scene moments ago in the sunlight take on a scowling appearance. In these sacred realms where nature holds sway, divine displeasure brings punishment by weather. Sacrifices, libations, and offerings ensure protection. Humans are dust specks at the mercy of forces beyond our ken, and without my reinforced modern boots, my down parka, our weather-sealed expedition tents, our minus 30-degree-centigrade expedition sleeping bags, the warm hats and gloves and mitts, my rain gear, extra jackets and thermal layers, the backpacking emergency kits in my pack, including a 1,600-lumen flashlight that can light up an entire campsite after dark, the energy bars, nuts, and dried fruit treats in my waterproof rubberized pack, I’d be as vulnerable as a newborn babe in these woods, in this sudden, unpredictable mountain weather. Even with all we have, the dragon’s rumbling grumble that comes rolling deeply over the mountains, seeming to shake the very ground, strikes an old, ancient terror at my heart. More rain, snow at this altitude, poses serious dangers even with the arsenal of equipment we have at our disposal. I glance at the empty stone circles left by the absentee yak herders, quickly gauging how warm they’d keep me in the event of an unexpected snowstorm.
Frequently at camp, my old friend and our Chief of Operations, Karma (the “Good” Karma, as I like to call him) offers juniper incense smoke to the spirits. He began life in a prominent yak-herding family at the far western edges of Bhutan and is fluent in the lore of the mountains. “Watch,” he says. “I can make the rain stop by doing this.” Smoke billows to the sky, fragrant with rich juniper scents; heavy droplets of rain come to a stop. The incense offering dies off, and the rain resumes. Karma smiles like a mischievous boy, delighted! It’s his private little magic trick, and he laughs at my sheer disbelief.
In the ethereal realms below Mount Gangkhar Puensum, the “saang,” or burnt juniper smoke—a customary peace offering to brooding mountain gods—has a powerful sour-urine smell. Our veteran horseman Ap Tashi, who has walked these trails for over 50 years, says it’s because Bhutan’s Crazy Wisdom saint Lama Drukpa Kunley (1455 to 1529) peed all over a juniper bush in this part of the country, making it potent for such supplicatory offerings. As smoke rises from a small pile of lit juniper, he grins and points a crooked finger at the sky caught between rain or shine. Is it meant as proof of his story of uncertain origins? The Bhutanese landscape is full of such tales that blur the lines of myth and history. One realizes quickly that the What, When, Where, How, and Why of any conventional enquiry in this landscape does not follow linear patterns of logic familiar to the western mind, but rather become caught in such gauzy eddies of mystical faith and belief, entangling even historical events in the web of religious credulity, magic, and mystery.
MAY 13
A sudden, unexpected hailstorm follows us for a distance, the small chunks of ice glittering before melting away. Gangkhar Puensum is still shrouded in mystery behind calligraphic, curling clouds like the great hidden universal mountain, the primordial Axis Mundi connecting the underworld, the earth, and the heavens. This is why ancient eastern religions revere mountains—they connect us to realms that lie beyond our sense perceptions.
They say near very dense landmasses, gravity pulls harder than anywhere. Whatever the scientific proof, I see how the proposition got started. Both my feet have turned to lead.
My trekking companions are an ant’s-line of bright-green, blue, and orange parkas threading their way up the mountain at the far end of the valley. Far beyond them, snow peaks glitter dangerously, clouds scudding skies. Mountains shine like daggers pointed heavenwards, and the clouds are pregnant with the promise of rain. Despite heavy feet, my heart is light. After a year of planning, we’re nearing our goal—camp awaits with hot tea, popcorn, and snacks.
MAY 14
Morning finds us at the base of Gangkhar Puensum, waiting for the peak to emerge from its cloud cover. The mountain plays hide-and-seek; we catch glimpses of its massive shoulders and triangulated summit as clouds shift. We sit outside our tents sipping hot coffee and eating breakfast: fried eggs, rice, sausages, and more. Mid-morning brings a dramatic reveal—the peak stands wide and majestic against the blue sky. We are dwarfed, mere ants before a divine emperor.
Later, our team heads toward the glacial basin for exploration. My friend Karma climbs a high ridge alone to meet blue sheep—a sign of snow leopards nearby. Our main destination is Burtsham or ‘Glacier’s End.’ Ap Tashi, our lead horseman, points out how much the glacier has receded (several kilometers) since his youth—a stark reminder of unrelenting climate change.
Against a brooding sky, a yak grazes placidly near Gangkhar Puensum Basecamp.
A herd of yaks graze in front of the massive Mt. Gangkhar Puensum. Although a peaceful-enough scene, it hides an ominous truth. The meadow on which they graze today was once part of a glacier that our lead horseman, now 67, remembers from his youth.
I follow the Chamkharchhu river, and mountains rise sharply around me like Tolkien’s Middle Earth come alive. I’m a speck in this cosmic landscape of rock and earth. Hidden caves dot the cliffs where yetis might yet live, for mysterious footprints were found here as late as 2014.
Further up the trail, a large black yak lounges in a dirt dugout that serves as a private nook. He is lord and master of all he surveys, until a grey yak, larger than him, ambles over and forces him to vacate his spot. The encounter reminds me that nature may be wholly unfair. One can’t stash one’s frilly romantic ideas here. And the grey yak seems to revel in teaching me that lesson. He stares at me, grunts, and proceeds to lay down and roll around vigorously, rubbing himself filthy in the hollow, as if to leave no doubt of his mastery. Miffed, the other yak shambles away, shaking his head in disbelief.
A sharp crack echoes through the valley—ice breaking above? Glacial floods are common here due to warming temperatures. Efforts are underway to manage these risks with early warning systems for Glacial Lake Outburst Floods (GLOFs) but that seems small comfort in this steep, stone-littered valley with nowhere to hide. Even as I’m thinking such dark thoughts, a lone figure comes weaving down from far up the valley like a tiny feather drifting in the immense landscape, whistling a merry tune.
It’s our horseman, Ap Tashi.
At 67, Ap Tashi handles his horses like someone half his age. He talks to his horses, softly urging them on. “They’re like my children,” he says. “They feed my family, so I take good care of them.” Such tenderness for pack animals is rare among high-altitude Bhutanese horse drivers who shout and use the switch instead of the gentle coaxing and the quick rump rubs Ap Tashi gives his horses.
Morning brings isolated pairs of men, women, and boys up the mountain, each taking a different path. They hunt for Cordyceps, the fungus prized in Chinese medicine. It’s a hard life, searching for something so small on steep, treacherous slopes. In 2021, ten cordyceps hunters were lost to a mudslide. The work strains eyes and knees, each barely noticeable and flickering stalk a potential treasure. On a cordyceps picker’s mountainside, solitude. Everyone scatters to find their own fortune. Greed will come, and with it, fights over territory. For now, the government gives locals first pick. Once gathered, the Cordyceps travel to valleys like Bumthang or Paro to be sold at prices rivaling gold. Tales of newfound wealth spread like wildfire—nomads renting helicopters as taxis. In this age of digital payments, some of them arrive in lower valleys such as Punakha and Paro with sacks of cash to buy cars, homes, buildings.
MAY 15
After two nights at Mount Gangkhar Puensum, we break camp and head down the valley. I check the camp one last time to ensure there are no traces of our presence. We follow our horses beside the Chamkharchhu river. The river purls over rocks and boulders, following its ancient urge to smooth the rough edges of everything that stands in its way. The towering mountains above us endure. We, with our brief spans are, as the Buddhists say, “like lightning in the sky.” One must hope that we leave the world a better place, but that’s easier said than done. We are given. And we take, heedlessly.
I make sure we stop at key points in the landscape where sacred spirits are thought to make their homes. Sometimes it’s a towering mesa that rises above the surrounding land, at other times they are wide blocks of bare mountain that reveal what appear to be fortifications, ramparts and turrets. Sometimes the bare cliff or mountain, or forest is itself the deity. It’s all so very easy in such surroundings to feel the living, breathing force of the sacred. Easy to walk softly around such mountain gods in awe, the blue curling smoke of burning juniper incense rising to the skies as our peace offerings.
A three-hour hike brings us back down to the tree line. I move through a profound silence broken only by the sounds of the river flowing next to me, the cooing of birds in the trees. The ancient rocks and mountains bear silent witness to everything within the infinite arc of time. Lost in mountain reveries, I surprise a Monal Pheasant browsing quietly along the forest floor until my rude interruption of its tranquil forest solitude, its iridescent head going up and down as it hunts and pecks on the ground. The monal reminds me of the Cordyceps hunters we saw this morning: Tiny stooped figures in bright green, red and blue, only the color of their heavy jackets marking them on the landscape as they stoop and rise, scratching their way up the mountain inch by painful inch. Amid an angry protest of feathers and clucks, the Monal scuttles away between the trees, soon lost to view, only a sharp, screeching rebuke echoing in the still mountain air.
MAY 16
At the steepest section of the trail this morning, I meet a couple coming down the impossible-looking slope prodding their horses down the mountain. “Are you ‘picking worms’ I ask by way of mountain greetings, the phrase a euphemism for Cordyceps picking. The man, whose round belly precedes the rest of his body nods. Trailing behind him is his wife, a stout, no-nonsense Bumthap mountain woman, the front hem of her ankle-length traditional Bhutanese Kira hitched up to her waist and tucked away behind her belt for ease of walking. She smiles and offers a quick nod as I stop to let them pass.
The tiny yak herder’s village sits below Thole Tsho, a high lake thick with glacial silt. I’m invited to one of the low stone huts. The wife, Jambay Wangmo, speaks Bumthap. We share an instant kinship as it’s a language my mother speaks. A chained Tibetan mastiff howls outside, all fangs and fury. Jambay and her husband, Ugen, insists on tea. “Bad luck to let you leave with an empty mouth,” they say, in the Bhutanese manner. I know there’s no escape. The hut is simple. Two rooms. The kitchen has a fireplace made of blackened rocks. Pots are clean, streaked silver where the soot has been scrubbed, probably using handfuls of fine gravel sourced right outside their door. The inner room has an altar. Currency notes as offerings. A picture of their lama. They serve tea with yak milk. Maize flakes. Then, Ara, strong and mind-bending.
More than a little tipsy, I say my thanks and climb to our camp by the lake, at 14,480 feet. The Solangchhu River is calm here, no hint of its future fury as it tumbles down the steep mountains. Himalayan Choughs cry in the silence.
In the mountains, where hospitality is not measured by material wealth, but the willingness to share what one has, the couple—Jambay, and her husband Ugen—insists on the age-old proffer of a cup of tea, which quickly turns into offers of a more potent brew.
MAY 17
In the morning, we climb to Tholela Pass. At 15,520 feet, it’s hard going. I think of holy Padmasambhava, who walked these very paths centuries ago. Or did he levitate?
Beyond the Tholela, the “Pass Where Man Needs Walking Stick,” lies the most dizzying mountain scenery. The Dhur’s headwaters cascade down in milky tresses, vanishing into a hidden tarn, then reappearing as a braided stream. It’s a holy pigtail shaken loose from a mountain goddess’ head.
Craggy, snow-flecked mountains rise vertically. The rocky trail scrabbles down to a flat stream bed. The water runs clear over rust-brown pebbles before disappearing. The trail drops in sharp zigzags to the valley floor. Below, the young river sparkles in the sun.
I stop for lunch by the stream. Two Cordyceps prospectors struggle up the trail. Lhakpa and Khandu teeter-totter under a month’s load. They walk like crabs, side by side. I share my sandwich. The younger man rouses a third companion, sleeping off ara on a sunlit meadow. The drunkard sits bolt upright, dazed. I leave them and keep walking. The Dhur River gurgles and swishes. A lonesome bird whistles. A yak pulls at dry grass. Vegetation changes from lichen to alpine scrub, getting greener. Bowlegged trees appear. A wooden bridge spans the river, spare and functional. Three stone huts stand on the other side. Later, yellow, white, and cream rhododendrons bloom. The river widens, tumbling in white cascades. Mountain slopes dense with flowers, a silent poem to the Bhutanese spring. Flat rocks wrapped in Daphne leaves line the trail, customary gifts for mountain and forest gods.
Finally, camp. After dinner, we gather by a small fire. A sudden downpour sends everyone rushing to their tents, and even though the rain is short-lived, no one has the heart to come out, and so the night is on us, cold and crisp with bright points of light in the sky through the opening in the trees.
Beyond Tholela, the aptly named "Pass where Man Needs Walking Stick," lies a dizzying, vertiginous landscape that no camera can adequately convey.
MAY 18
Near the tail end of our Gangkhar Puensum Trek, we descend fast, entering thick, living forests that feel like great universal cathedrals of the wilderness. Golden light falls through tall rhododendron trees, their branches bending over the trail. The green woods echo with bird calls—a cuckoo sings in the distance.” In myriad thickets south of the Yangtze grows a flower named the cuckoo,” the Yuan dynasty poet Liu Guan wrote, describing the seasonality of cuckoos and rhododendrons in his poem Hearing the Cuckoo. “It blossoms when the bird arrives, and farmers tell each other to plant their spring fields. . .”
In this waning month of our Bhutanese spring, there are almost as many blood-red rhododendron petals on the ground as on the trees, an exquisite teaching on impermanence. Entranced, I step on a wet, slippery mound of horse dung. The flower-strung trails and the ripe smell of horseshit, the flies and the birds and the bees all existing side by side. Delicate purple flowers push up from a cake of dung, a reminder that beauty can rise from any samsaric muck, like a lotus blooming from a dirty pond.
Chef Sonam serves us fiddlehead ferns and cloud-ear mushrooms in a rich, secret cream sauce of his own devising. We drink and celebrate our last night trekking. Cook Kinley sings about the beauty and the pain of high mountain passes, eyes closed. Horseman Tashi performs a peacock dance, a surprisingly beautiful and shocking rendition that stuns everyone. “I came to Bumthang,” he sings, “…like a stud; I was given to [marry] a beautiful Bumthap lady because I can sing and dance like a peacock!”
Our caravan lead Ap Tashi's horses, who have worked harder than anyone at camp to get our provisions up and down the mountains, get a brief respite before the final descent toward the end of the trek.
May 19
On the final morning, as we break camp, Ap Tashi is working with his beloved horses, singing, his lilting voice rising, a protective presence over camp as the dappled light falls from the trees on the waiting horses, gently stamping their feet to relieve themselves of the flies.
The first thing we see on re-entering civilization is a fenced-in meadow with grazing cows. Soon, the tops of some painted farmhouses, mostly hidden among the trees, and then a big, long green cell phone tower pointed at the sky, a banal end to such an extraordinary, revelatory time.
***
May 9
LIKE A SCENE from an old Japanese brush painting come to life, tendrils of high mountain mist curl up from Yotongla, the 11,000-foot pass to Bhutan’s central Bumthang highlands.
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