I set off the following morning at ten, in a beat up car that passed for a taxi. After the gruelling ten hours drive up from Pokhara, it was only around an hour and a half to Muktinath on roads that were at least navigable. As we left Jomsom, the stark bleached arid mountainscapes unfolded on every side, the road defined by a wide river course leading back into the mountains.
The road up to Muktinath took a sharp turn at the ancient village of Kagbeni and we started the steep climb to the temple town, gaining a full thousand metres in a mere twenty minutes, finally arriving into the medieval turned modern tourist resort, to be greeted by three of my old friends: ugly noisy modern construction, altitude stress and cold.
My capacity to endure high altitude has sadly diminished with time, though I suspect it was never ever particularly robust. I was forced to concede this having booked a New Year’s trip to Copacabana and La Paz in Bolivia a few years back, only to realise at Puno, Titicaca that it was all sadly beyond me, so back I went ignominiously to Lima. That was at 4000m of altitude and Muktinath is only some 200m below that. And cold is always a problem for me, I’m a temperate to tropical climate person and even living in Britain has its problems. Priorities change under these circumstances; the attractions of hanging around naked in a chill bathroom waiting for the icy shower water to gain a little warmth loses its appeal, whilst winter woollies make their debut appearance from the suitcase.
I had booked with the Grand Shambhala Hotel, but there were in fact many hotels and guesthouses around, and many more under construction, consequent on the one time busy pilgrimage traffic. Many had been closed for months because of the pandemic, and some still were. The influence of western tourism betrayed itself everywhere with oddly name establishments like the Bob Marley Hotel, boasting an Australian chef; globalisation had well and truly arrived. The first few hours there were wiped out with a migraine headache, consequent on the high altitude I imagine, but later that afternoon I roused myself and went out to scope out the town and the goal of my journey, the temple. The town itself was unremarkable enough, although set in an expansive green well irrigated valley, surrounded by the barren high mountains. As I neared the temple, my heart sunk as I saw an immense long flight of steps ascending the mountain side toward the temple at the top. It would have been daunting at any altitude, but especially here at such a height. The late afternoon sunshine illuminated the sweeping vista of the green valley spread out below with its irrigated orchards and trees turning golden with the approach of autumn, the high mountain silhouettes wreathed with luminous clouds on every side.
In the end I decided to stay just a night and leave after making the temple visit the following morning. The hotel staff were friendly and obliging and the bed at least warm and comfortable, so I settled in for the night and tried not to feel too intimidated at the thought of what the morning would bring. I had arranged to get a lift to the main temple entrance on a motorbike, but thereafter I was on my own to make it up the long flights of steps to the top, attired in my scarlet temple finery. Before the pandemic had effectively shut down pilgrimage traffic, there used to be packhorses available to transport those unfit to climb, but no more!
