~A Modern Pilgrim’s Progress to Bhutan’s Mystic “Lion Fort”

STARING AT THE DYING SUN, I forget my otherness.

My soul becomes the sky. It is pure, untainted, authentic space. I am free from the fetters of preconception, unbound by limitations, experiencing an ultimate field of possibilities.

Until I see the leech.

I try not to scream but there are half a dozen of the persistent little buggers (excuse me but there is no other way to describe them!) studiously climbing up my mud-soaked boots, leaving a trail of slime.

Fortunately Ap Yangku, our cook, guide and expedition leader in more ways than one, gallantly plucks them off.

All around me, the entire group of dozen or so trekkers is now a chorus line of madly hopping people desperately clutching blood-soaked shoes in an effort to shake off the leeches.

Besides Tom Petty and Bob Dylan on my Disk-man, there is a young Bhutanese doctor, Choeda, my cousin Choden, an education officer named Dochu and a full camp and kitchen crew of cooks, local horsemen and their assistants.

All through my childhood my family elders spoke reverently of the place. My mother returned from her own trip a few years ago deeply moved by the sacred power of the holy sites surrounding Singye Dzong or “Lion Fort” (so named because it looks like a leaping lion). And now, here I am, trudging up the hill.

Day 1

An auspicious curve of rainbow bends from the heavens framing Lhuntse Dzong from where we set out on foot. Soon we are singing jauntily from a mad jukebox selection of open-ended tunes from current western pop (Tom and Bob leading the crew), Bollywood hits and popular Zhungdra songs.

The fact that only one person from the entire motley crew, namely Ap Yangku, knows the route is of little concern to us.Having begun our day at seven in the morning, our feet thump bravely over the Kuri Zam, bringing us in barely an hour to Khoma village.

We are full of pep and quite proud of the progress we have made.We wonder foolishly if this is going to be so easy.

Tom croons to me, conjuring a private rose-colored universe in the space between my earphones. That pretty much takes care of the trail along the Khoma River. Thanks, Tom.

What’s next?Itchy bugs.

Scratching madly at things I cannot even see, I wait for Ap Yangku and the porters to arrive, bearing lunch.

The river is long out of sight (although I can still hear the distant rumble) and all around are trees, trees and trees.Ap Yangku and the porters arrive drenched in their own sweat. Chewing my food guiltily, I wonder how the porters ever make a living.

Such meager reward for so much work.

In the afternoon we meet some people from Denchung, a village of a mere 20 inhabitants. Surely this is the smallest village in the world?

Afternoon tea is served by an ethereal waterfall that cascades toward us from dramatic cliffs. “When a rainbow is visible over the falls,” a local man says. “It means the spirits are preparing their meals”.

This is our first indication that we are now entering a landscape separate from the outside world. Another hour’s walk brings us to Khomagang, our stop for the night. We are greeted by the aroma of fresh ground maize and the traditional offering of local spirits (the worldly kind that puts a fire in your belly, that is).

After the meal and refreshments, the villagers attempt to convince us the local husk of a building with new roofs and incomplete walls is actually a guest house. Whatever, I think, as I pass out for the night.

If only.

Several times I toss and turn, trapped in the kind of nightmares that make you cold while the distant Khoma River or some primal drum beats a constant rhythm to my fitful dreams.

Day 2

In the bleary-eyed morning I see the constant drumming that punctuated my sleep was really a downpour. Of course, every single person who had scoffed at our “guest house” the previous night is now sheepishly ensconced within its half-finished walls.

After breakfast with a lingering aftertaste of wood smoke we resume our trek, passing a military outpost at Tsikhang.

Shortly after lunch, the rain comes down again, just as we had predicted. I am glad we have all taken the time this morning to wrap our clothes and bedding in plastic to keep them from getting wet.

Despite the dubious protection of a decade-old rain jacket I am soaked, from my pants to my shoes to my socks. The cold sets in and my feet ache, dispelling any illusions from the previous day of a leisurely stroll through the woods.

The afternoon chai break is the best cup of tea I have ever tasted in my life. Another half-hour back on the trail brings us to our camp, a place called Thangkarmo. Here I have my first opportunity all day to change into some dry clothes.

I marvel at how often we take for granted the delicious pleasure and comfort of a warm set of clothes.

Despite the leaky roof, our crudely built “guest house” tonight feels like a five-star luxury hotel. And, of course, everyone knows where they are going to sleep tonight, right?Since it has been a long tiring day, we decide to break out the bottle of Johnny Walker as a treat for the crew.

Most of them have never tasted imported whisky and are ecstatic at the opportunity.In the afterglow of some excellent whisky, we all settle in for the night.

Day 3

Everyone wakes up rested and excited. Today we roll into Singye Dzong!But first there are four hours of plodding through the mud. Several times I slip over treacherous logs and land on my rear, getting myself wet and muddy all over.

We pass an amazingly massive and beautiful rock formation at Toktophu, with what locals consider to be holy water or drupchu dripping down its sides. Lunch is at Doksum, “the place where three trails meet”. Dr. Choeda arrives breathless. “The rest are still far behind,” he says. “We have no connection.

Not sure when they will get here.”This gives me some time to contemplate the river from a nearby bridge. I feel its fine misty fingers caressing my face. I close my eyes.

Afterwards, as we wait some more, Dr. Choeda confides that arriving at Singye Dzong will be his next greatest lifetime achievement since receiving a doctor’s degree.

Ditto!When the stragglers finally arrive Choden is complaining about the blisters on her palm. From leaning too much on her makeshift hiking pole, she says. Dochu, the education officer, says he has aching feet. Somewhere, somehow, shoes have been exchanged.

No one knows why but Choden is now wearing the education officer’s shoes and he hers.Apart from that, spirits are still high.“My hands hurt as well,” Dochu teases. “From Choden clinging to me all the time!”

However Ap Yangku, our normally hardy beacon of hope, has lost some of his normal cheer and appears somewhat peaked. “It’s the altitude,” he says. “It makes it very difficult for me to walk.”Arrival“And there, ahead of us, is the incomparable Singye Dzong”, Ap Yangku says with a flourish. “Bow your heads and make your prayers.”There is no magnificent fortress the usage of word Dzong normally implies.

The Lion Fort, it turns out, is no manmade monument but a unique geological formation. Of course I have gathered as much from the stories I have heard, but it is no less a shock.

What Ap Yangku is bowing to is a mountain, old and immense and timeless. The surrounding valley is beautiful, every bit deserving of its reputation as a Bae Yul, a “hidden land” of perfection.

I feel every step, every bead of sweat, every single discomfort we have endured on the entire three-day trek rewarded manifold.The sky is clear, expansive, and small distant streams coil down from the mountains.

Ancient temples dot the landscape, the only evidence of human habitation.Ap Yangku spurs us the final stretch with a bit of tomfoolery. There is a sacred rock where we can leave our thumbprints so our parents will be blessed, he says.

But we have to run, or it will not work. So we run and wildly stamp our digits on the first interesting rock beside the trail, until he arrives, laughing all the way. Near the main temple in the valley, the resident lama greets us politely and directs us to the nearby guest house.

When the porters arrive, they are carrying some yak meat they claim came from a fresh Tiger kill. Whatever the truth, the stew at dinner is delicious and tender and juicy.

Later, I turn on my Disk-man, as we slip into bed (Choden and I have our own private room). Jack Johnson, whoever he is, lulls me to sleep. Breakfast holds a pleasant surprise outside our window.

The mountains have donned a white mantle of snow during the night. In some inexplicable way, I feel as if Singye Dzong has done this just to welcome us.I wear my warmest clothes in several layers until I feel like an overdressed Eskimo.

We are going to climb to 18,000 feet today and everyone runs to Ap Yangku for a fill of his sweet black tea as we have heard it will stave altitude sickness. I do fine in the beginning. But as the day wears on I feel I am being suffocated and the many layers make me hot and uncomfortable.

I am giddy and then nauseated, following which…well, I’ll spare the details.The entire group worries and fusses over me. They hand me all kinds of sweet treats to spur me on. Sweets that get wedged in my cavities. I gobble everything like a fiend, but it doesn’t help.

My legs hurt, my stomach hurts, my head hurts, my throat hurts and my tooth begins to ache.Dr. Choeda feels my pressure and says it is much too low. But I don’t want to give up after coming this far. He gives me a satchet of Oral Rehydration Salts. I have always hated the taste of ORS. Finally, after what seems an eternity, I drag myself up the mountain to Tshonag or “the black lake,”, first of the holy sites on local pilgrims’ routes.

I stare at the lake and hear detachedly the group’s songs honoring the spirits of the lake. The cold air feels good and slowly the pounding in my head ceases. Soon there is nothing but the encompassing peace and quiet. It is indescribably beautiful, lying there at the foot of these snow covered mountains, staring at the lake, my mind mirroring its glassy surface.

On the other side is Tshokar or “the white lake”, completing the ying and yang, the yab-yum of this hallowed space. In the concrete words of science both these lakes are called glacial runoffs, but the geography of the spirit describes them as the earthly manifestations of a gigantic sheep― with black hindquarters and white heels― transformed in the 8th century by Guru Padmasambhava, patron saint of Bhutan.

Halfway between the two lakes, we stop for lunch at the mouth of a small cave where the Guru’s consort Khando Yeshey Tshogyal meditated and reached enlightenment. In the late afternoon, our rounds of the day complete, we head back down to the guest house after stopping for butter tea with a family of Yak herders.

The startled children outside the herders’ low stone huts begin to cry when they see us. “Please don’t mind the children,” one of the mothers says. “They never see so many strangers at one time.”Arriving back at the guest house as the last light is fading from the day, we drink celebratory rounds of Ara, eat and then sleep as only exhausted people sleep.

The Geography of Place and MythWe rise early again to give ourselves ample time to complete the prescribed circumambulations. First on the list is Gawa Dzong, with its magnificent statue of the Guru. Next is Dulwa Dzong, where we see a footprint in the rock credited to Khando Yeshey Tshogyal.

Further on, we climb a rock where the Guru is said to have meditated. Five celestial dakinis are appeared and offered the Guru holy water.

The celestial sisters can be seen today as the five trees that dominate the surrounding landscape. It is believed that one must offer a song to each of the five celestials. Quickly we begin to run out of songs and our less-than-impressive rendition of current Bhutanese pop degenerates into entirely nonsensical rhymes, ending in much hilarity.

I’m sure the celestials are satisfied, though. After all, it’s the thought that counts.At Dorji Dzong, the next site on our rounds, we hear the following story:One day the Guru saw a frog climbing up the cliffs with the intent of plundering a beehive.

The Guru divined this to be a bad omen for the world and subdued the frog, preventing all frogs thereafter from ever climbing a cliff or a tree.Other places come in quick succession, including Pema Dzong and Namkhai Dzong and Rinchen Dzong.

Soon the legends all blur and blend. We are grateful to break for lunch. In the afternoon, we take a tour of the main Singye Dzong complex, where we are introduced to three kinds of holy water whose sources are credited to the Guru and his two consorts, Khandro Tshogyal and Khandro Mendharawa.

We stop at a site with an imprint of Khandro Tshoyal’s back on the rock and are told that fervent pilgrims can sometimes make holy water ooze from the bare rock. At another rock, with interesting black and white striations, we learn is the place where the Guru has imprisoned 108 mythical Garudas who could wreak havoc in the world.

During the entire day we have not once thought about the physical strain of walking and climbing. Instead, we dip in and out of the exquisite landscape in front of us and the mythical and magical topography unfolding in our minds until I am quite unable to decide which is more real, the place in front of my eyes or the one that now inhabits my mind. I am not even sure there is a difference.

Some people believe that truly dramatic landscapes such as waterfalls, rocks and mountains can be true portals into the higher realms of the spirit.

For centuries, generations of my people have known this to be such a place.

By the end of our week long journey into the inner landscape of the spirit and outer geography of the land, I have no doubt Singye Dzong is a remarkable place of enduring spiritual power.

The Answer is blowing in the Wind

When we arrive back in Khomagang, a triple layer rainbow greets us, taking away the need for words. Back in “civilization”, I say my farewells, dispensing with my hiking boots and socks, and handing them to one of the grateful young porters. I think of cheerful Ap Yangku, who made it all possible, and of all the others who shared this incredible journey.

I feel as if I have stepped into the heart of the world and come home with a precious lesson I may not be able to articulate. It may be true what the great masters have to say.The deepest truths are heard only in the expansive space of silence.“The answer” according to my friend Bob, “is blowing in the wind.”