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1) The 1988 summer Olympics were held here.
2) This is a fairly conservative society that is firmly rooted in Confucian philosophy.
3) Recognized by UNESCO, the first book was printed here 75 years before Gutenberg busted out his version. It was a collection of Buddhist writings and is now in the National Library in Paris.
4) Taekwondo originated here.
5) This is the home of the brands Hyundai, Samsung, Daewoo, and LG.

So long, farewell.

Kristen and I had to part ways in Hong Kong. She flew back to the U.S. and I for the next country. It was sad and bizarre after 2 wonderful months to be on my own again. She is truly an incredible person and we were pretty ideal travel partners with many of the same goals in vagabonding that mainly centered around finding purpose and significance beyond ourselves. We sought to explore, be responsible and astute, to appreciate and learn from other cultures, try new stuff, observe beauty, seek adventure, exude Christ whether it be in the Gecko Bar or an orphanage, lay possible groundwork for future opportunities, search for good chocolate in every country (essential!), deepen and challenge our faith, and of course, have a roaring good time. In my strange proclivity to silly names I liked to call us team K2 because both of our names started with the letter K and we had spent a large chunk of time in the Himalayas. Tragically, it is now down to K1. However, even though Kristen is on the flip side I still have a bit of adventure left to share with you.

Fleeing from the Minotaur

Chungking Mansions reminded me of that Greek myth where young maidens were thrust into a giant labyrinth where in time the minotaur, a fierce beast that was part man and part bull would come to devour them. The only reason why the developer could be inclined to call this place a mansion would be due to the fact that it is a colossal mass that soars up from one of the busiest roads in Hong Kong. There is nothing whatsoever that is high brow or refined about it! We arrived in the evening and pin balled our way through the packed corridors in search of our hostel with our backpacks awkwardly swaying behind us. Every square inch was crammed with men of different nationalities. There were very few women in that place. Faces and voices from Mali, Jordan, the UK and everywhere else reverberated off of the walls. The ceiling barely cleared the heads of the crowds and the width would have not have accommodated three arm spans but that didn't discourage vendors from stuffing cheap merchandise, food, or glaring neon signs into every last crevice and niche. Anything you could ever want save for a breath of fresh air was available. Cell phones, baby shoes, Indian curry, or the latest pirated movie were ready to be sold to the passerby. We popped through the crowd like a cork from a bottle and rose out of the chaos via the elevator. A grimy rat's maze led us to a minuscule guest house/hallway on an upper floor where the minute Chinese proprietor unlocked our small but surprisingly tidy room. We scraped together our bearings in the relative peace of the space, dumped our heavy bags, and scurried out of the labyrinth called Chungking Mansions that is famous for its good food and infamous for its frequent drug raids. Out on the street we were bewildered by the sight and stimulation of Hong Kong's neon signs that flicker from gutter to sky in between the crowds and clatter. There's no stopping now, here we go Hong Kong!

Next

1.) The name of this city rhymes with King Kong. Do you really need any more hints?

Mysteries

There are some local guys down the beach playing soccer, their dark silhouettes darting across the pale sand. The rhythm of the tide coming in beats a descending cadence with the whirr of the slender long tail boats as they bustle in and out of the cove. People with dark suntans are leisurely milling about, making the most, or least of their vacations. The sun is piping hot but thankfully there are verdant trees generously sharing their shade on the far end of the beach. Behind the palms cliffs climb towards the sky with ragged pirate faces doused in rusted reds, oranges, and noir. The isthmus of Railay is one of Thailand's most beautiful and low key beach villages and is synonymous with rock climbing.

The other night we decided to go for a night swim. We left our headlamps behind and made our way under cliff overhangs and caves in the darkness while our flip flops punctuated echoes off of the cooling limestone. The moon was full and bathed the south beach in an eerie secondary light. It spread reverse shadows over the surface of the water and blurred the threshold between reality and the imagination. The tide was up and tucked in for the night and the water was vast and dark. We sprinted into the water giddy with moonlight and dove under, our laughter exploding in bubbles all around. Bathwater. Earlier today we snorkeled in this very place and the memory of coral, neon fish, and slippery little things washed into my mind. It was bizarre to think that they were all there darting around just a few feet underneath as though in their own universe. Huge pinnacles of rock called karsts towered like sentinels out of the water. They were ominous and fantastic at the same time. Darkness is a funny thing. It can be comforting and also terrifying. I think that physical darkness is like a good mystery or intrigue. We may come to know part of what moves in it but some element always remains tucked away. Not hidden, per say, just impossible to be known in its entirety. It is alluring but also confounding. I am glad for moonlit nights and I am glad for mysteries.

Jungle

The green thicket maintains peace even though the cicadas are creaking up a storm. Songkran is far removed from here by a day's worth of mountain biking over a mountain (a large hill by Montana standards), through a gully and back up and around another mountain. Last night after we arrived the five of us lounged on the gas lit deck as darkness tiptoed in through the jungle. We mused that the tropical tree's silhouettes were eagles, poodles, and such, and as so often happens, let our conversation mingle towards stories that we wouldn't share in the daylight.

The night has passed and I find myself in the same place again. I am trying to keep my eyes closed. The morning breeze is perfect and loans freshness to the warm air. The deck is sturdy and rustic and the woven mat beneath shows evidence of last night's rice and chicken which attracts the ants. The murmur of the foliage in the wind makes my eyes want to open to see who is serenading me. The hill drops down from here to a gathering of coffee trees, lowers into tropical palms and then heads back up the other side to the east. This small place is soothing and exotic. The lush green trees harbor snakes and fire ants yet from here they are only breathtaking. Not very long ago this remote pocket was the garden for opium but today only the friendly drug of coffee grows. There is something so tranquil about this place and for once I have found a venue to rest and to think. Later on today we will dash down the mountain on our bikes but for now I will just let my eyes fall shut and listen to this place.

Songkran

It all began with a quiet tradition of cleansing the Buddha statues. Being the hottest time of the year the adults would gather the water that dripped off of the statues in their palms to lovingly offer it to their children for refreshment. Somewhere along the way things went terribly awry. The Thai New Year, or Songkran, is simply an excuse for people to throw convention out of the window and burst into a national multi-day water fight. Work responsibilities are pitched out of that same window and anarchy rules from Bangkok to the countryside. Buckets, super soakers, barrels, hoses, and even backpack water reservoirs are carried with glee as water is thrown everywhere. Children scamper after you with riotous giggles, wizened old gentlemen cackle as they dump a bucket of water down your back, and even middle aged women forgo their dignity as they deviously pummel the passerby with spray. No one is exempt and no place is safe. Walking from hostel to street corner guarantees a dousing. You don't just get damp - you get sopping wet to the point where your clothes are dripping.
Here in Chiang Mai the epicenter of the festivities was around the moat for obvious reasons. Buckets of murky water were hauled out and pitched all around. It was a street party in the truest sense where the routes were gridlocked with pickups filled with soaked revelers and others prowling in between with eager buckets. The thumping of the music was only surpassed by the screams of shock and guffawing of thousands of Thais.

Special rules of engagement exist despite the chaos. In magnanimous Thai fashion water is never thrown into the face and no one loses their temper in the week long revelry. Overly enthused, I accidentally hit a guy in the face with a bucket of water (yes, Kristen and I went local and stocked up on buckets and a water gun). He blinked as the water dripped from his completely bewildered expression. He was so befuddled that someone had broken the "rules" that he didn't know what to do! I apologized profusely, he smiled and realigned his super soaker for some more crazy, but considerate Songkran festivities.

Like This and Like That

We are leaving Cambodia, that has (in my limited opinion) the world's most beautiful airport at Siem Reap. It is contemporary yet warm, a good mix of shadows and light, rich, restrained, and elegant. Enough of that though, the next spot is like this:

1) This is the "Land of Smiles"
2) The Royal family is well loved and every home and business boasts photographs of them.
3) We were able to mountain bike and ride on elephants in the north's hilly jungles and able to rock climb and snorkel off of the south's beaches.
4) The food here is world renowned and Kalispell has a restaurant dedicated to their food.

A Cooling Grace

The sun sank into the horizon like a submerged leaf drifting in a pool of water. We came to this crumbling Angkorian temple to savor our last evening in Cambodia. The knee high steps were magnificent in their solidarity and cut a jagged pyramid of crimson sandstone as it rose up from richly hued trees. Effigies of Hindu gods and Ankorian kings persisted amongst intricate flourishes carved onto every surface. What were these kings like? Were they horrible and cruel, exploiting their citizens and their power or were they benevolent and just? Oh, to have been there to see it all! To have watched the artisans chisel the minute details in the stone! The rosy stone was still sizzling from the day's sun and the place pulsated with over 1,200 years of history. We stepped deliberately to the top and I nestled myself behind an ornate lion as it roared at the sunset. Kristen leaned up against the stone wall and stretched her legs out before her. We nibbled on cashews and congratulated ourselves on a time well spent. Hardly had we sat down when a young girl no older than six implored us with the hands of a deaf child. We were filled with pity when we took in her slight form and saw that she was encrusted with filth yet were also suspicious of her verity. Some of the children we had run into were shamelessly full of wile. Her doleful expression was soon joined by several equally miserably pitiful children with wailing mouths. What to do? I was exasperated by the begging and was reticent about perpetuating the mindset that one can get something for nothing rather than by working at something that supports and advances the community. One little boy in particular was especially pathetic and his eyes wrenched the heart. However, as the sun dipped lower the shadows made his eyes glow with greed and caprice. It made me livid. All I was to him was a walking dollar bill! At first I tried to share my Luna bar with him but he only had cold hard cash on his mind. Perturbed, I opened my Bible to a random spot.

“But I say to you who hear, Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you. To one who strikes you on the cheek, offer the other also, and from one who takes away your cloak do not withhold your tunic either. Give to everyone who begs from you, and from one who takes away your goods do not demand them back. And as you wish that others would do to you, do so to them. “If you love those who love you, what benefit is that to you? For even sinners love those who love them. And if you do good to those who do good to you, what benefit is that to you? For even sinners do the same. And if you lend to those from whom you expect to receive, what credit is that to you? Even sinners lend to sinners, to get back the same amount. But love your enemies, and do good, and lend, expecting nothing in return, and your reward will be great, and you will be sons of the Most High, for he is kind to the ungrateful and the evil. Be merciful, even as your Father is merciful." (Basically all of Luke 6)

Honestly, God is so brutally obvious at all of the most inconvenient times. I placed the Riel in his eager palm and he disappeared. That action was more beneficial for me than it was for him. As I gave it to him my skin prickled with rage. I was furious that I was nothing more than a rich sucker to him and that he was probably taking that money to an enterprising adult. Even worse, I felt as though I was feeding the beast of poverty, the haves, have nots, greed, and injustice. I gave him the money because I was so adverse to doing so. Can this be expressed? It seemed so wrong to perpetuate the ineffective solution but that verse slapped a stronger conviction across my face, "You still have more than he does. What are you going to do about it today?"

The sun burst into flame and then sank under the horizon's cool surface. Exhausted inwardly, we crawled off of our perches and down the ruins. As we left we saw the deaf girl skipping as she yelled back and forth at her friends.

Why Not?

"Why not?" is a popular phrase among the Cambodians we have met and so it was our natural response to answer in the same way when we came across a fresh opportunity. It presented itself in the form of lunch. Hungry and desirous of something truly Cambodian we headed to a small outdoor shack with plenty of occupied hammocks relaxing in the slight breeze. The bikes were set aside and our eyes were filled with fresh vegetables stacked alongside a sizzling wok on wheels. The wok was filled with a fascinating concoction and we were not entirely sure what all was in it but it seems like it was cooked enough to kill anything too deadly and the cook was awfully nice so we ordered one up.

First, a thin layer of yellow batter was smeared over the surface of the wok. After a few steaming seconds a mix of baby shrimp with legs included, mystery meat, bean sprouts, and a copious amount of vegetables joined the party. At the ideal point of perfection known only to the cook it was flipped over omelette style, flopped onto a banana leaf and handed over. Sauces and such were at our table and we sat down for the epicurean adventure. Using the right hand only the stuff was torn off and dipped into a clear soup that seemed to be a floating mix of vinegar, water, sugar, and peanuts.Hmm... chewy... crunchy... delicious! We downed the first and ordered another. The local folk were thrilled and readily plopped another down before us. For a moment we wondered if our GI tracts would later revolt but we decided to forget about it. We never did figure out what the dish was but it sure tasted good!

Rover

He's an old thing but we have become fast friends. When I ventured under the shade of the thatched roof there he was, calmly leaning against the concrete wall as though waiting for me. In an instant we knew that we were going to get along swimmingly. It takes a lot of effort to get him rolling but after all, what do you expect from such an old bicycle? Within minutes of pedaling I knew his name: Rover. Rover because he is red and he is sending me all over the town of Siem Reap and the Cambodian countryside. The other day a man along the road laughed at the prospect of anyone riding such an antique, "You're bike! Soo old!"

Old Rover is an ancient shade of red and sounds like acorns in a tin can as I pedal with an occasional plaintive squeak that seems to cry, "Don't you know I am too old to go this far?" The center bar is long and curved like an old man's slouch and the whole contraption looks straight out of the French Resistance with its basket dutifully strapped to the handlebars.

Rover is also quite good at introductions. The back tire has a tendency to leak air which means that we had the opportunity to meet some local folk as we search for a bike pump. Although our acquaintance is to be short lived I am very grateful to Rover for helping me discover Cambodia. Perhaps we'll meet again someday!

Where to Next?

1.) Angkor Wat, the "Mother of all Temples" is located here.
2.) The Khmer Rouge and their leader Pol Pot led a terrifying regime here in the 1970's.
3.) Angelina Jolie adopted a little boy from here.
4.) This country was once colonized by the French and so a hankering for a baguette is easily satisfied.

Street Kid

Krazy Kathmandu.
In. Out. In. Out. He is clutching a white plastic bag to his mouth, eagerly inhaling the glue inside as his other hand expertly rubs the sack to loosen the last remnants. Cars, rickshaws, motorcycles, and feet scurry by in the broad daylight without a moment's notice to him. He is only a child at 12 yrs old but he has no parents, home, nor even shoes.
His hair is matted and gray from grime as random locks stick up in a salute to the streets of Kathmandu. Now the glue is gone, having made its sinister path to his lungs and is evident in his glassy eyes that have forgotten pain for the moment. His eyebrows are lifted and mouth without expression. The concrete before his feet has disappeared and he is sailing high in the clouds. There is nothing to say about his shirt, it is merely a dirty rag that hangs from his bony shoulders. His pants are tattered and there is a tear at the knee that falls away in a triangular shape like Nepal's flag and it flaps as he soars along. He bounces with each step, not caring about anything or anyone, especially himself. Soon enough, the high will wear off and he will plummet with a sickening thud back onto the filthy concrete that is covered with an inexplicable slime after it rains and back to his home that he shares with feces and rodents. For now, his troubles are gone and he is a bird: free.We befriended some street kids and went for a taxi ride!

The Best Day Ever

Kathmandu is a city of cubbyholes, cubbyholes of shops for food, shoes, cosmetics and skin lighteners, medicine, bicycle tires, and suspicious food. Each one has a story and a history hidden behind its low doorway. Finding a particular one is a challenge, as places are named by district and building numbers are nonexistent. Due to this the place retains a small town feel despite the bulging population of 3 million.

Kristen and I were strolling around the narrow, soul filled streets one morning when we caught sight of a charming doorway in a dark alley opening up to what looked like sunny courtyard with peals of children's laughter spilling out to where we stood. "Want to go in?" "Yes!" Disappointment was far from us as we tiptoed in and found the heart of a community. Laundry swayed in the polluted breeze from fourth story windows, mothers gossiped as they worked, men relaxed in the morning sun, children ran about willy nilly, and crimson and white flags were strung across the plaza. Elections were coming up and telling by the flags these people were supporters of the Communist Party of Nepal United Marxist Leninists, one of over 50 parties. A sprightly 12 yr old girl approached with a smile and set her cap with the party's sun, hammer, and sickle emblem on my head and we giggled.

Across the way a cubbyhole with the look of an office and filled with men with similar hats beckoned. "May I? Could I?" An enthusiastic greeting awaited there and Rajan, a university student passionately answered my questions about their party and the elections in general. We rested on battered wooden benches with discolored concrete underfoot. Politician's effigies and their promises wallpapered the wall several feet ahead of us. Sunshine poured in and before long Kristen came over to listen to these gentlemen as well. In many places I would be leery of doing such a thing as chatting with unknown men but the ones we have met in this city have been honest and unequivocally kind.

Sangita, the girl with the red cap still sat with us and with her sweet, beguiling smile offered to decorate our hands with henna. We listened to our new friends, all seven or so of them as she worked on our hands. As my hands were covered in drying mehndi I set my hands palms up as though receiving every word they uttered through them.

Sangita and I with our hands covered in communist propaganda.

All of the sudden a fist full of peanuts appeared at my mouth. Sangita, observing that my hands were occupied had thoughtfully included me in the group snack. Grubby and visibly soiled, not to mention wet, her hands recalled to mind every disease and parasite I did and did not know about. What now? Should I offend these people by refusing their hospitality but protect my health or let her feed me and risk an excruciating death by some mysterious disease?

The peanuts went down the hatch. And more, and more, and more. Finally I could not stomach any more and told her I was full, thank you. Please Lord! Protect me! We left, stomachs full of who knows what harbingers of cruel fate and our hearts full of the joy of new, albeit brief friendships. Like the elegant flow of the henna designs our conversation lilted with laughter and we gained insights into each other's lives and cultures.

p.s. I did get sick, really sick later on. Dang peanuts.

Getting High

As the rhododendron forests along the valley floor misted away our eyes feasted on snow capped peaks and yaks grazing peacefully on the slopes. We trudged along the blue Khumbu Glacier, drinking in the indescribable beauty of the area that could never be captured on film or in the words of a poem. Like the poet James Joyce said, "I shall never see a poem lovely as a tree", I shall never see a poem lovely as a mountain.Heading up to Kala Pattar
The arrival at Gorak Shep, the final camp was one of those powerful moments where the soul leaps in exuberance but where the body is heavy as lead. Our muscles and lungs were willing but the general foulness of the altitude parched our bodies of energy. Another joy of altitude sickness is the inability to sleep. Even the most obliging of characters come to curse the person who inadvertently wakes them from their veneer of sleep from the other side of the paper thin wall. After such a night we gingerly coaxed ourselves out of our sleeping bags and into socks stiff from sweat, ate our meagre breakfasts (altitude robs appetites as well), and started up Kalla Pattar in the darkness, a minor peak of 18,000ft across the Khumbu Icefall from Everest. We made our way up the slope methodically, protected by the shadow of Everest in the dawn's naissance. As we neared the summit we left Everest's silhouette and entered into the morning light. A steady push found me on the top of Kalla Pattar with Pema to greet me. A flurry of brightly hued prayer flags celebrated the sun as it peeked over Everest. I found shelter in a cleft of the rock, hunkered down, and welcomed the sun as it rose over the north ridge of Mount Everest.
Everest is the black peak. That white mass in the lower left is the Khumbu Icefall. Tibet is to my right.

Altitude Sickness

(Pausing for a breathtaking breather)
Every false move is devastating. Rising up hastily, walking too quickly, or even turning over in a sleeping bag must be carefully planned and even more fastidiously executed. A rash decision causes pain to scissor through the skull and a saturating feeling of malaise. When tying a shoe one must first consider, "Is there anything else I need to do while I am down on one knee?"
Going to the bathroom is a journey in itself! The hallway is like a trek up a hall of fame. Flags of Everest expeditions are illuminated in the light of a headlamp as cloudy plumes of breath eerily hover. Don't walk too fast, it will only make you tired and sick for the coming task. Make sure to close the bathroom's squeaky latch without exerting too much energy. Turning around, one notices that everything in the bathroom is encrusted in ice from... fluids. However, there is a window opening up to stiff peaks and frigid sky that is a beacon of Himalayan hope in this slippery mess. Squat, do your business, and as always, consider if there is anything else you need to do while you are at that lower elevation. Nope. Fantastic. Stand slowly and retreat. Ah, the toilet at the top of the world is such an edifying experience!
(Ama Dablam dominates the landscape, the Khumbu Glacier carves the valley floor)
The doctors at the clinic in Namche Bazaar, the last big town a couple of days walk from the trailhead aptly refer to altitude sickness as the Young Man Death Syndrome. Why such a name? It is so called because the majority of the fatalities from the illness are young, incredibly fit males who let their pride surpass their common sense in the thirst for mountains. Veterans have said, "Oh, you'll get altitude sickness, everyone up here does. You just have to make sure that it doesn't develop into a serious (deadly) case." Thanks. I guess I came for a new experience and that is just what I am going to get!

Pema and the People

As far as Sherpa guides go, Pema is totally boss (in the middle). Silly as that saying is, that is all that I could think of as he boldly let the way. He knew it to every last goat trail, could estimate precisely how long until our next destination, and like a mother hen insisted that we down the opaque onion-garlic soup to stave off altitude sickness.
Pema's real name is Ang Pemba Sherpa. The Sherpa are a people group renowned for their mountain prowess and every Sherpa's last name is "Sherpa". Each child is named after the day of the week they were born. What if two children are born on the same day? Have no fear! Simply place "Ang" in front of the younger one's name! This seems like it would lead to a great many mix-ups and such but it seems to work just fine for them.
Small in stature, weighing in at 140lbs, Pema is a brick of muscle and a complete jokester. He knew folks in every town where he would share a hearty handshake with a man or playfully heckle some poor little Nepalese girl.
There is a certain image of Pema that will be remembered for a great while. It is of Pema striding up the trail to a bend, pausing, setting his tall black umbrella that he used as a walking stick in front of, hands deftly folded over it and his gaze filled with the mountains. "Ok didi(sister)?" "Ok."
He wasn't the only one who called me sister though. I am happy to report that I have been greeted with, "Namaste baini (hello little sister)" and a slew of Nepalese phrases that I had to meet with a stammering, "Namaste, but sorry, I don't speak Nepalese." Their faces would fill with surprise and then hilarity at this anomaly of a Nepali/Tibetan face with American habits. Oddly enough, I became a bit of gossip on the Khumbu wireless. As we hiked along Pema translated that some of the people had remembered seeing me in such-and-such a place. It is an honor to be counted as one of these strong round faces with calm eyes and smiling lips. The Nepalese that we have brushed up against have exuded remarkable hospitality and genuine warmth. That in itself has been a welcome journey. It is in now way obsequious or self seeking, it has been gentle, considerate, generous, and with a measure of practicality. It is the sort of kindness that you are willing to receive and hope to someday know how to give.The typical teahouse kitchen. Mmm... sounds good.

Solu Khumbu, Nepal

A stomach twisting plane ride afforded a view of the mighty Himalayas as we flew from Kathmandu to Lukla, a collection of teahouses perched on a mountain slope. The small craft was no match for the wind and flitted up and down like a paper airplane. However, its small size allowed it to swerve amongst the mountain peaks to lurch to a stop on a runway the size of a stick of gum. We teetered onto the tarmac and congratulated ourselves on our successful arrival in Solu Khumbu.

The Solu Khumbu is a region in northeastern Nepal with deep cutting valleys and some of the most impressive summits in the world. There is an ancient trail that makes its way slowly but steadily over rickety swinging bridges with glacier fed whitewater roaring beneath, through stone hewn villages, and over wind whipped passes, or "la" (as in, Shangri-La). It is our intent to hike this trail which is also known as the Everest Base Camp trek. If all goes as planned, we will end up at Gorak Shep, the last accommodation before EBC and will climb Kala Pattar. Everyone we talk to bemoans Gorak Shep and describes it as a miserable, God forsaken place. Between the cold and altitude sickness it makes even the man with the most chiseled calves grimace.

We however, have been enthusiastic and were thrilled to be in the mountains again. After a hearty breakfast we laced up our boots, strapped our packs on, and hit the trail.

And what is the trail like? Well, while on it I have asked myself, "Is there anywhere you'd rather be?" Nope. It's that good. At times the way is rocky and uneven. Other times it is dusty and the fine powder of dirt and dried yak manure covers everything. At the end of the day our kleenexes are black. Sometimes tall stone steps rise and fall over the steep slopes. Villages are nestled along the way welcoming the passerby with smiling people, is punctuated by stupas (Buddhist onion shaped domes), and mani stones (stone tablets inscribed with prayers that are piled 2 stories high). Prayer flags criss cross the sky as though it would unravel with out their insurance. Above these the snowy crags of Ama Dablam, Kanchanjunga, and others careen towards the heavens. The ding of a cowbell warns the hearer to step aside for a passing caravan of zokia (yak cow crossbreeds) or yaks. They meander by, their expressions indolent but but backs sturdy as they make their way with gargantuan duffel bags emblazoned with an expedition's logo or supplies for a teahouse. More impressive are the men and women who trudge through these peaks with veritable mountains on their backs. Carry more than their weight for days on end through high elevation country? No problem! A severe pang of guilt plugs me in the gut as I look down at my softshell pants and camelback as they pass me in their cotton shorts and hands completely devoted to their load. What is the remedy for this moral dilemma? Maybe I'll make more sense of it as I keep walking...