The Rules of Engaging Grief

As the holidays approach and we savor the company of family, I want to share an essay I wrote about marriage and presented to one of my daughters on the eve of her marriage.  I say savor because isn’t life about being on an adventure with someone who wants to be with you as you with her/him and experiencing the full dimension of life — even its loss?

On Marriage and Trekking in the Himalayas

Many years ago, I journeyed with a friend from Delhi, India to Pokhara, Nepal for a trek in the Himalayas to fifteen thousand feet and the base camp of Doulagiri, a towering twenty-five-thousand foot peak in Western Nepal.  Reflecting upon the experience now, I find the trek as a symbol of marriage - at least my marriage - and perhaps you will discover similarities in your own unfolding relationship.

In preparation for the trek, I exercised rigorously, increasing my distance and speed running in a wilderness near the President’s polo grounds where they worked the ponies - not far from the U.S. embassy compound.  I purchased a pair of boots - which I still have - a couple of weeks before our departure and wore them each day to condition my feet to the stiff leather, since I was not sure that the leather would soften sufficiently before our departure.

Our ride in the Land Rover was not uneventful.  Though the Indian map indicated that the major highway led directly to the Nepalese border, we discovered otherwise.  We reached a river in Northern India and pulled up to a toll station - not to cross a bridge, but to drive onto a raft not much longer than the vehicle.  In mid-stream, the widest of four we had to cross, the burly river boat men insisted that we give them more money else we would not reach the other side.

I remember now with a smile the anxiety I felt when I heard my companion shout “punch, punch.”  I was inside the vehicle freeing the wrench of the Land Rover to be used as a possible weapon against the extortionists.  I rushed back to his side, only to see that he was negotiating the price for access to the other side, “panch” being the Hindi word for five.  We paid, but only when we were assured that one payment covered the other streams as well.

In Pokhara, we hired three Tibetan porters, refugees from the 1959 Chinese invasion of Tibet, to carry our food, clothing, and tents.  They usually were paid by the day, but since we considered our time limited (I rushed about more at that time in my life) we arranged a flat rate, thus providing an incentive to the Tibetans to lead us up and back sooner.

We set out on a cloudless day from Fish Tail Lodge, situated in the center of a lake, with Doulagiri, resembling a fish tail, towering in the distance.  In my inexperience, I thought of a trek as a steady climb up and afterwards a walk down the mountain.  I expected the walk up to be hard and down easy.  Only hours after we departed the lodge did I begin to suspect that reaching our destination was going to take much more time than I anticipateDonna  We were in a valley heading toward the steep hills, but did not seem to be getting any closer to the massive rock formation of Doulagiri in the distance.

When the path before us began to rise, I received another surprise.  Instead of a steady climb, the path dipped back down, surrendering hard-earned altitude to the hills.  Up two hundred feet, down a hundred, up another hundred feet, down a hundred and twenty five, up higher, down lower, and on and on.  I would cover a lot more distance during the trek than I had anticipated studying a map.

A camera which I carried to photograph nature - wild rhododendron trees in bloom, a panoply of greenery, and snow covered peaks - proved much more sensitive to the Nepalese whom we encountered as we passed through the small villages of ten or so dwellings grasping the high ground.  They worked the miracle of cultivation in terraced gardens carved high above the plains, or trudged along the path with bundles braced along their backs and high above their heads in measured steps no beast of burden could endure.

I became aware of how important it was to care for my feet and how oppressed they felt in the new boots.  Walking up hill is no more difficult than descending.  We made a good team -he climbed like a mountain goat and I descended with similar sure footed-ness.  Never did I feel in more need of water to slack my thirst after hours of uninterrupted walking, though the air temperature was not hot.  As we climbed to an elevation free of settlements and grazing, I would stand in the rushing glacial waters waist deep and drink from cupped hands.

And higher and lower and higher we climbed to where the air goes light and you believe that it would not take much to fly, or slide miles down on a glacier field stretched out before you.  Immortal though you be, a walk across the glacier tests your mettle.  Step by step, following the footprints of your ancestor on this journey, careful not to stray else indeed you will slide miles to the bottom.  Quiet, unruly quiet, and the wind, and the kite birds sailing the breeze.  Oh, to fly, you think, and all you hear are footsteps in harmony on the ice. 

A figure approaches descending from above.  He is a European and you get set to welcome him and trade words.  He is the first that you encounter since departing days ago.  He does not respond to your greetings.  Rejection brings anger and without thought you are back on the ground and in the world of strife and struggle and competition and . . . anger.  And then a second figure from the hills approaches.  He volunteers that they have lost their companion in a crevasse.  “He wandered off the path and was no more . . .” You forgive your unthinking judgment of the one who passed in silence.  A shiver rushes through your body, as you stay closer to the path.

Higher you reach and with the lightness of heart you think you hear the chimes of heaven.  Is it the wind rushing through the palm branches or rock formations chiseled by the glacier a millennium ago?  The sounds grow closer and you wonder if you are experiencing the symptoms of high altitude sickness.  You estimate that you are already above twelve thousand feet.  And then, over a barren hill in the distance you see a long caravan of donkeys approaching, each fitted with a battered bell that swings in rhythm and fills the mountains with music.  We are on a smuggler’s’ trade route between Tibet, Nepal, and India.

Oh, the weariness you feel as you are four days out and contemplate a return of four days. It is early morning, though you have been walking for hours.  You pass a hut and could swear that in the window stood a liter bottle of European beer.  You must be hallucinating and you hesitate to mention the vision to your companion.  Your thirst overcomes your reserve, and both of you retrace your steps to the dwelling, the window, and the bottle.  You negotiate the price.  Sitting alongside the path, you share the bottle.  No beer since has been more satisfying.

And what of marriage? A journey, not a destination, filled with surprises sometimes measured in ups and downs, exhilarating sites, adventure, a sense of flying, breathless music, companionship, solitude, silence, joy, and always an awareness of a presence deep inside, like the black, granite surface of Doulagiri that stood immobile but observant as we crawled to its base camp.