Pilgrimage - Part I
Days of Judgment
First peek of Kedarnath Peak, 6,940 m / 22,769 ft high
Death arrived early and often on the trek to the holy mountain temple, Kedarnath. But before the Reaper could sow his claims, one of many eye-openers appeared at start of the path packed with thirty thousand pilgrims.
Local men loitered with large baskets strapped to their backs. Surveying the scene, a guess at what would go in those baskets was immediately validated. Those unable — or unwilling — to make the climb on their own legs could pay these men just a few thousand rupees (~$30) to bear them along the steep, rocky, eighteen kilometer route on their backs. There were many waiting to take on fares.
Manchans waiting to fill their baskets with human cargo
After absorbing this harshness, another hit my eyes — and nostrils. Hundreds of mules and their droppings greeted us outside the hectic bottleneck of Gaurikund village to join us on the journey up. The beasts of burden were a second option for the unwilling or unable to reach the top; hiring four men shouldering an open sedan chair gave a third alternative.
The porters were luckier than the animals in that they didn’t have other men screaming in their faces, whipping their asses with bamboo switches with abandon, and yanking their reins and tails fiercely as they toiled and stumbled over the difficult terrain. Amid this scene, we navigated the mule-packed and dropping-lined path.
Mules waiting for their next trip — and lash
Death’s siren first sounded around 4K in. I first noted an unusual-looking pack on a porter’s back loaded with a large parcel wrapped in a white sheet as he hiked down towards us. A policeman walked closely beside him, his escort. It quickly became clear the man was carrying a corpse on his back from God-only-knows which part of the long path ahead.
Less than ten minutes passed before a second sight startled me around a sharp switchback. A white mule lay on its side, rigor mortis stretching its legs up stiffly and at odd angles. Its empty saddle was still cinched on, a look of pure anguish across its face. In spite of withholding one particularly gruesome detail to save some from disgust, I’d think most would share the bad taste I swallowed without it.
The sight of the miserable-looking mules and only marginally better porters passing up and down; my feet avidly avoiding fresh droppings; my nose unable to dodge the stench; using my t-shirt for a mask while holding my breath to avoid the “dust” from workers sweeping the path clean. This sensorial overload awakened a superconsciousness of suffering as I walked up and pondered within.
I was traveling with the Yogi I had met upon arriving in India. He invited me to visit two of the four mountain temples that comprise the ancient Char Dham Yatra while I was in the ethereal mountains of Dharamshala.
I eagerly accepted his invitation given pangs of entropy descending on me with growing sharpness after a few weeks of living there. How could I pass an opportunity to visit these sacred places with the Yogi from whom I had learned much just weeks earlier?
Yet when I arrived in Rishikesh to rejoin him, delays accumulated to stymie our departure. And as the days drew on in the stifling summer heat, doubt became a frequent visitor in my mind.
Another bout of stomach trouble passed quickly but the heat steadily rose, making it hard to concentrate or do much of anything. I mostly found myself marinating in bed or leaving to read and eat in cafes. Thankfully as my health improved, these outings gave the gift of engaging conversation and friendship with fellow travelers and seekers, a particular talent of Rishikesh’s.
Nine days after hustling back to Rishikesh our car left with Swamiji, his assistant, myself and a young trek leader who would assist on the way.
The beauty of the passing mountains above and beyond the long and winding roads would grow with their height over the next five days.
Yet, it didn’t take long before doubt became the predominant thought in my mind, overshadowing the initial experience. It was not the optimal mindset to set off on a spiritual pilgrimage.
———
Doubt has been a familiar passenger on my ride of more than two years currently traveling, and surely before. It always packs an oversized roller full of questions that I’ve had to lug around.
After landing in Cape Town in early 2016 to begin my trip, I waited for a bus to my first hostel stay and found myself asking, “What the hell have I done? Did I make a mistake? Can it be undone?”
It didn’t take long to realize the absurdity of these predictable fears while I took in the novel sights of that distant land. And so I set off to begin my adventures.
Others soon contributed questions of their own in the beginning, the most frequent and expected being, “Why did you do it? Why did you leave behind your family, friends, job, life, to travel?”
Obvious questions often lead to cliched answers but beneath the small talk lies the bigger truth.
It’s a worthwhile question, one people typically don’t want the rote answer for. Looking back at my replies given and actions taken in the early months, I was looking for salvation through escapism. Inevitably, there’s only so much pleasure-seeking one can pursue before the bigger questions become persistently louder.
Extensive time away from the familiar comforts of your previous life certainly has immeasurably valuable benefits. After more than two years on the road, I was seeking to quantify it while on my walk through India.
I had already climbed tall mountains. I summited Kilimanjaro within a few weeks of leaving New York. It was a magnificent and challenging experience.
Yet doubt would note it is one thousands complete every year, so not particularly unique or impressive. What was the lesson in paying thousands for a guide to lead me up the trails and eight porters to carry my provisions, preparing my tent and meals ahead of my arrival at each camp?
I had also gone on famous pilgrimages before — sort of. My intent was not to walk the fabled Camino de Santiago. But my improvised, clockwise circumnavigation of the Iberian peninsula returned me to Spain by bus from Porto, Portugal, to Santiago.
Playing to my predilection of skipping to the end, I arrived at the pinnacle of the notably arduous walk without much effort on my own part. While strolling through a hostel popular with Camino pilgrims, I observed their impressive sock-tanlines and noticeable limps with mirth, respect and a tangible tinge of envy for missing out on such a profound experience. Doubt takes many forms.
Not the first time I've used this photo, clearly an all-time favorite
Before our excursion, Swamiji told how the Yatra was once known as the "Jaws of Death" due to the perilous conditions of the premodern journey. Pilgrims heading up from Rishikesh into unpredictable weather and terrain would receive the same blessings as those reserved for the dead.
Aside from the babas that still walk the Yatra, most journeyers now arrive on maintained roads with the aid of oil-, animal-, and manpower. I felt I was taking the easy way once again, and doubt packed its bags once more...
A small portion of the 30,000 pilgrims on their way to the temple 18k away and 3,500m up