The French are all around me.  It’s either the French or the Germans, with a few Americans thrown in the mix for good measure.  We know who has the money.

           Whenever I am in a lodge designed with us tourists in mind, there is little for me to write about.  It is true the mountains are stunning, but they are far off yet, and like a person or a culture or the mountains about to be visited, they all exhibit little personality from a distance.

           We have resolved our water bottle shortage.  I had misplaced the two I had packed and replacing them has proved difficult.  But finally it was accomplished after a great deal of scrounging around.  The Nigine bottles are obviously highly sought after, and the two we found were in poor shape.  The shopkeeper wanted much more than I would have had to pay in the States for new ones and this went against my grain.  We opted instead for the empty bottled water containers. They are thin and we will have to be careful, but they will do and they are free.

           We added extra soups to our food supply and purchased a wool hat for Dawa, inventoried the food (it will be tight), packed and are now ready for the second half of the trip:  The desolate and beautiful Hongu Basin.

           Dawa has brought up the idea of climbing Mt. Mera.  He knows I have toyed with the idea and it is a thrilling prospect. But at 22,0000 feet it may be and probably is beyond my physical abilities.  This is getting up into the big leagues, not technically, but elevation.  However; weather, time, and supplies permitting, I just might give it a try.  After all it was one of the reasons for coming and bringing the climbing gear.

          A French climbing team has been at my lodge.  They attempted an assault on Ama Dablam. They did not succeed.  A woman member of the assault team fell to her death when an old belay rope she was using parted. I am told she fell 5,000 feet from camp II.  At that event the team elected not to proceed.

           I do not agree with that decision.  By not continuing the climb, one adds failure to tragedy.   Instead I would have dedicated the climb to her and continued.

           Sitting here waiting for time to pass seems to make me hungry.  It must be the lack of meat in my diet.

           It’s amazing what we can witness by just looking out the window and taking the time to observe.

           The mare was quick to fight, and the big chunk of flesh out of her side proved it.  She was not the biggest, but certainly the meanest and the quickest with the hooves.  She had a hair trigger and pulled it often.  It certainly did not help matters that the food pot had only room for a couple of muzzles and that there were eight or nine jockeying for position, and being hungry, their tempers were short.  The mare proved her dominance over the food pot and maintained it against all challenges with slashing hooves that routed the horses.  After numerous fights the pecking order was firmly established, but not without bruised ribs and scattered villagers.

Horses on the Trail            But the real pecking order came when a young boy with a thin switch rushed into the melee and with the force of youthful superiority, attacked the mare and then chased them all down the trail.            It was not long until a dzopchuk, was lying along the path just opposite my window. Laden with commerce, with bulging eyes protruding impossibly out of his skull, his tongue dragging on the ground, he looked as if he was ready for the meat counter.  The handler kicked him, twisted his head by using his long curved horns, pulled his tail, and then with the help of a group of bystanders, pushed the animal to it’s feet, only to have him collapse almost immediately. Dawa suggested that the animal was new to the business of carrying and it was his way of