Meeting the Mother of the World

Cloud-Busting

The dog shambles out of the shadows, appearing a little disoriented, as if he just woke up.  At the edge of the cliff, he stops, and fixes his eyes on the distance.  He stands like that for a long time, his gaze never wavering.  It's 6:30 a.m., and I'm watching the same spot, waiting for sunrise.  How the dog knows to watch this particular spot, at this particular time, is a mystery to me-perhaps he feels the

 

immense energy emanating (or, is it pulsating?) from the fixed point in front of us.  One thing's for sure:  the undeniable sense of something mighty and magnificent lays just ahead.

 

We're standing at an elevation of 5,100 meters (or 16,700 feet) above sea level, across from Rongphu Monastery, near the base of Mt. Everest, on the Tibetan side.  As it lightens, I notice that the mountains are heavily socked-in with clouds.  The spot we're concentrating on is somewhere within this wall of dense cloud cover, and though I can't see anything, I can definitely feel it, my senses tuned into a heavy force in the distance.  I know she's there.  Yes, I can feel her behind that shroud.  And I've come a long way to see the highest mountain in the world-after a seventeen-hour jeep ride from Lhasa, one that crossed over the Tibetan plateau via the Friendship Highway, climbed six mountain passes (some merely snaking dirt roads), and included an unplanned bit of 4-wheeling due to road washouts, I'm primed for a view of her.  The fact that it might not happen causes some apprehension.  I continue to wait, pouting a bit.  I even outwait my canine companion, who leaves with a yawn and seeming shrug, to meander back to the monastery.

The clouds are jam-packed between the rocky shoulders of the mountains, and they're not moving.  Swathed by that white cloak are the Himalayas, including Mt. Everest (what the Tibetans call Chomolungma: "Goddess Mother of the World").  I'd glimpsed her the evening before, in the setting sun, as we made our last mountain pass into the region, the jagged white peaks rippling on the horizon like whitecaps on an ocean.  In fact, it felt as if we were ascending into the very heavens themselves, and at the top of the pass, it looked as if we were about to depart from the land, straight over the edge and into the expansive, rosy and peach striations of the sky.  I kept marveling at it all, disbelieving I was at the top of the planet.

 

I'm determined.  I turn and concentrate on the spot, willing the clouds to break apart with my mind.  After a few minutes, to my surprise, a small area near the bottom of the mountain clears (I can't help but think, Did I do that?), and as the sun lights it up like an ice-blue jewel, I realize that I'm looking at Rongbuk Glacier, right at the base of the mountain.  This is encouraging-there's a chance.  I run to meet up with my fiancé and our Tibetan guide, Pasang.

 

The Rough-and-Tumble Arcade at the Rooftop of the World

The jeep carries us the seven or so kilometers from the monastery to Base Camp, across a strange, lunar-looking landscape, through wisps of errant clouds.  Climbing the last 100 meters up in elevation, I'm pleased that I suffer no ill-effects of altitude sickness, nor the cold-it's actually rather balmy, with temperatures hovering around ten degrees Celsius (or fifty degrees Fahrenheit), and I need no more than a light jacket.  That's the thing in visiting Base Camp during the warmer months-you can get away with jeans, sneakers, and a light jacket, depending upon the day's weather forecast.  Alternatively, you could spend thousands in outfitting yourself with the latest mountaineering gadgets and clothing.  Pshaw, I say!

We pull into the first part of Mt. Everest Base Camp: a tent city of makeshift restaurants, teahouses, "hotels," and even a post office.  There's an Old West aura about the place, a rugged feel that lets one know, in no uncertain terms, that this IS the ultimate remote outpost-that one is in the middle of nowhere; the rough-and-tumble arcade at the Rooftop of the World.  To me, it feels like the center of the universe.

 

The camp looks north through a corridor of mountains to where Mt. Everest should be spectacularly framed, commanding the horizon.  I can still feel her pull out there, stronger than ever, but the veil of vapor refuses to move.  To ease my anxiety over not ever glimpsing her celebrated face, I busy myself with exploring Base Camp.  Tables in front of the tents display chunky  gemstones, gruesome yak skulls, and pretty mani stones, but rather than looking like gaudy tourist stalls, they resemble pagan altars-the placement of nature's wares aesthetic, almost reverent.  Whoever the vendors are, they're nowhere to be seen.  It seems there are mysterious goings-on within the tents, and I hear laughter and foreign languages coming from behind the frayed woolen blankets flapping over the doors.  I've heard the rumors about prostitution, gambling, and theft up here, which frankly, don't shock me, and certainly don't deter me from wandering around.  I'm tempted to enter one of the teahouses, to see what hardy souls hunker over their yak butter tea or beer within; whether Sherpas, climbers, or adventurers, but just then, our driver whistles for us to board:  we are about to make our way to the upper edge of Base Camp, right to the line of restricted access, where only hikers with special permits are allowed to venture.  I'd much rather walk up, but our tour guide, Pasang, has made it clear we're on a tight schedule, if we're to make it back to Shigatse by nightfall, so in we all climb.

 

Bumping along the dirt road, I strain to see out the front window, past the religious icons and prayer beads which dangle from the driver's rearview mirror, but there are only clouds in the distance.  Unable to see anything, I slip into reflection, wondering why I've come so far to see a mountain; after all, I've seen plenty of mountains, and summited quite a few, so why should the tallest be a big deal?  So what, right?  I keep asking myself:  What does this mean?  What does it matter? I think about all the climbers who've died upon the mountain, whose bodies have been left behind, their skeletons melding with Chomolungma for the remainder of time.  What drove them to attempt a summit?  Why was it their fate to perish, while others were able to accomplish the feat?  The mountain is a magnet for those looking to break records:  first ascent without supplemental oxygen; first woman; oldest person; first double amputee; first blind person; and youngest person (such as 13 year-old Jordan Romero, who was just here a few months ago), and so on.  Obviously, attempting to climb Mt. Everest is no joke-the extreme weather, remote location, and low oxygen make up a potent recipe for disaster if something goes wrong, as fifteen unlucky climbers found out during the 1996 disaster, which was chronicled in Krakauer's bestselling book, Into Thin Air (which instead of reading I'd devoured years ago).  But I understand the attraction of standing atop the highest point on earth, and perhaps twenty years ago, given the gumption and financial backing, I might've attempted it myself.  For now, I leave it for my next lifetime, as just being at the foot of the mountain is an incredible experience for me.  These thoughts occupy me for awhile, but soon, we're driving right through wet and misty clouds, voyaging into the unseen, the haze enveloping us, and my hopes are at war with my apprehensions once again.  I'm nearly resigned to it:  I won't see her.  But I still can't give up on that glimmer of a possibility.  Not just yet.

 

Chanting into Being

We disembark into an alien terrain:  peculiar, smoke-colored boulders dot the surreal scene; large black birds with orange beaks perch quietly atop the piled cairns, eerily following our movements; clouds creep along the ground, drifting over our shoes, caressing our legs; and everywhere, at every available sticking point, the vibrant rainbow colors of the ubiquitous and charming prayer flags.  No wind stirs.  No one speaks.  We are alone, and the silence is palpable, nearly deafening.

 

 

Above our heads, a patch of bright blue appears, the blue of a child's plastic toy. Some mountains are beginning to materialize before us, though Chomolungma is still concealed.  As we wait to see if the skies will open completely for us, we busy ourselves with photographs, pausing in front of the small stone pillar the Chinese have erected, marking the spot of Qomolangma (the Chinese word for the mountain) at 5,200 meters.  The words are a little weather-worn, barely readable, and it seems fitting to me-I'm glad no one has erected some modern monstrosity to mark the site, as we humans are sometimes wont to do.

We follow Pasang up a small hill garlanded with cheery prayer flags.  He tells us the best view will be possible at the top.  His mood is quiet, and there is a stillness about him, something I hadn't noticed before.  I'm amazed, as I follow him up, that I'm barely out-of-breath, here near the pinnacle of the planet.  After being told by naysayers countless times that it would be too dangerous, and too hard to breathe, I'm pleased that my body doesn't let me down.  Standing there atop the hill, I look at where the mountain should be, but it's still just a sheet of clouds.  I'm disheartened, after making this incredible journey, even though I now stand before her unseen presence, even though I can feel her but not see her.  It's then I hear soft chanting behind me, and I look, to see Pasang with his eyes closed, murmuring Buddhist prayers, his lips barely moving.  It's very soothing.  I figure, what the heck-it can't hurt, and I pull the smooth turquoise prayer beads off my wrist, the beads I'd bought outside the holy Jokhang Temple in Lhasa, and start praying to the Goddess Mother of the World, running my fingers over the stones like rosary beads.  My fiancé begins praying to the Catholic god of his youth, and we all concentrate, lost in our respective beliefs and prayers.  After a time, I feel Pasang's hand on my shoulder.  "Look," he says quietly.  And it's right there and then I know that magic is possible.  The clouds have moved.  The great mother has lifted her skirts.

 

We are unable to speak.  The tears stream steadily down our cheeks as we stand there, anchored to earth yet straining toward sky.  It's a sparkling, otherworldly scene of white and blue, mind-blowing in its grandeur, almost mentally-incomprehensible; something that resonates on the spiritual plane, in the emotional landscape of one's being, and in the vibrating cells of the body-but not something you think about as you experience. Sacred Chomolungma looms before us like a colossal crystal, with a sugaring of snow, supreme tarot card of earth.  She is irrefutably alive, reigning there from her throne of ice-anyone would feel it.  My heart throbs with pure love, as if it'll burst (how I imagine Nirvana must feel), my soul connected to the planet, to all of humanity, and I know:  this is why I've come.

 

At the top of Chomolungma lies the border between Tibet and Nepal, and somewhere along the way up, the six additional camps for climbers at various stages along the Northeast Route, and the fearsome Death Zone, but these aren't visible to us.  Spellbound, we watch as stray cloud puffs drift across her facade, and the sun highlights the pyramid formed of her spiny ridges and rocky tip.  Plumes of snow blow off her shoulders in the wind, forming milky arabesques against the startling blue sky.  We're all fully there, lucid, but we've no need of speech; the looks that pass between me, my fiancé, and Pasang have a mythical language all their own.  What I see in Pasang's eyes tells me that, even though this is his thirteenth trip to the mountain, it's as if it were the joyous first, all over again.  In my fiancé's eyes, I see elation and enchantment, and I know my own are reflecting the same back.  Full of smiles, we snap photographs, bend and examine various smooth stones, and point out odd features in the scenery, as thrilled as children.  I've no awareness of the passage of time, no idea how long we stay, practically bowing at her feet, but eventually, it's time to leave, and we all climb back into the vehicle.  Wanting to sear her image into my memory, I watch the Goddess Mother of the World out the back window, until she disappears from view.

 

A Wriggling Body Full of Joy

On the drive back down, the driver tells us that of the 900 people to visit Base Camp last October, not one of them saw the sacred mountain, due to the weather.  At first, I attribute our experience to luck, but then I start to wonder:  did she actually show herself to us, grace us with a rare view, or were we able to see her because our hearts were open?  My eyes meet Pasang's at that exact moment, and he smiles at me warmly, which also gets me wondering if perhaps he's some sort of shaman, a magic man, able to charm the Goddess out of hiding.  I swear I can see a twinkle in those eyes of his before he looks away.

 

These and other thoughts consume me as we bump along the road, back to the monastery, and I question whether I could've attained this state of love and amazement back home.  Absolutely, I think, as I've felt it numerous times before, whether pondering the perfect artistry of a flower; or watching a sunset vividly soak the horizon; or gazing at a pearly full moon as it sailed across the sky, among other things-just never on this scale.  Never with the punch of this.  Certainly, she's changed me forever, and all my self-made promises to refrain from waxing New-Agey, all my prior intentions to not personify nature in this writing, are now rejected.  For what I know is this:  the earth's alive, and it has the ability to touch us, to change us at our core levels, to open us to the miracle of ourselves and our surroundings, to life itself.  You can take some crazy trip to the top of the planet to meet the Goddess Mother yourself, or you can walk into your own backyard and open your eyes and your heart, and she will be there waiting for you too.  She is everywhere.  She owns the place.

 

Back at the monastery, my morning companion, that scruffy dog of sunrise, bounds over to me, fully awake now.  He pushes his head under my hand, wearing the dog-version of a smile, and I kneel down to caress his dusty head and scratch behind his ears.  His wriggling body is full of joy.  And me, well, I just can't seem to shake this all-encompassing feeling of love for the world.  I turn for one last look at Chomolungma, within her temple of precious stone and luminous ice, amid her dancing clouds, and say goodbye, for now.