I rise early at 6:30 AM and creep out of the tent to watch the sunrise. The air is cold and clear, the valley silent save for the roaring of the river far below. The mountains are in deep shadow and look impossibly cold and inhospitable. But from the east, a warm radiance reaches out and touches their summits and protruding shoulders and ridges. Lacking anything else to do — the camper is lifeless — I walk up to a restaurant at the top of the village where I have some chai and toast while reading the comic book-like newspaper called The Nation.
Apart from a foray up to the village during the day, we stay slobbed out at the Refuge.
CurseOfTheTraveller 