My Year

2014 was my year. 2014 was the year I left everything familiar behind, and took off with nothing but a backpack and a passport and a desire to explore the world. This was the year I truly got to know myself, inside and out. No one else on earth who knows exactly what I've been through, the good and the bad. It belongs to me and only me.
I am leaving 2014 a different person than I was when I started it. Not because I've changed, really. But because I have learned what I am capable of. What I have always been capable of, but was too scared to ever test. I no longer use the phrase "I could never do that" because I can do anything.
While many of my friends back home are falling in love for the first time, learning the dynamics of relationships and compromise, I was learning about myself. Every time I had a hard day, it was a day to remind me what I am made of. The only person I know will be with me every second of every day of this life is me. So I learned to really love myself.
I met amazing people along the way and together we had incredible experiences and those times will always belong to us no matter where in the world we end up. I don't know where I would be without all the people who helped me along the way, loved me, or simply shared space with me. I met people who helped reveal my own shortcomings to me. I met people who lifted me higher than I ever thought possible. I met so many people just like me who reminded me just when I was starting to doubt myself, that I'm not crazy. I can do this. And I did.
2014 was my year. It was a year of adventure and self discovery, excitement and sometimes terror, heartbreak, but more than that love. I am grateful for every lesson and every opportunity I've had this year. 2014 will always belong to me.

Incredible India

I didn't love India because it was easy. Quite the opposite. India stared into me and made me feel naked in ways I didn't know I could. It expertly probed at my soul and found the most sensitive parts, poking at them as if they were only bruises on a peach. It made me feel uncomfortable in ways I resisted at first, but the longer I spent there, the more I learned how to accept. The bruises gradually toughened.
I learned things about myself. I had always thought myself a very independent person. I was always proud of the fact that I needed no one to be happy. India showed me a sort of community that I had never known existed. It was as if I had been missing it my whole life and never even knew what it was. It filled a space in me that I didn't know was there until it wasn't. I know now that needing people isn't something to be ashamed of.
India revealed my shortcomings to me as casually as a friend telling me about their day. I learned to read into my feelings of frustration and helplessness and to dig to the root of them. I know now that time is an invention of humans and it has no importance. India taught me that.
I would sometimes feel as though India was scrubbing me until I was raw. Standing in the busy streets, covered in a layer of filth, I never felt cleaner. More exposed. As if the layers covering my soul had melted away and my true light could finally shine through, unobstructed.
And I felt accepted. I was stared at with my blonde hair and fair skin. Everywhere I went, I felt eyes. Normally, in other countries this made me feel uncomfortable, as if I was on display. But the love in the heart of Indians made it something different. I felt vulnerable as I had never felt before. But I felt safe.
For me, discovering India opened a whole new world. And it revealed a whole new me. I know that this me was here the whole time, guiding me along from her hiding place deep within. But India was the place I finally met her and we finally became one. I love that land with my whole heart. I love the people and the smells. I love the sounds and the colours. But most of all, I love the person India makes me, and there is no love stronger than that. 

5 Life Lessons From Travelling in India

10 things I learned from travelling in India:

1. Everything is temporary.

Doesn't it always seem as if bad days are longer than good ones? A three hour plane ride in the middle seat seems infinitely longer than one with an isle or window. A good night's sleep goes by in a flash where as a bad one seems like it will never end.
When travelling in India, I have had to remind myself numerous times that everything is temporary. Everything comes to an end. I won't be on this bumpy, stinky bus forever. I won't be holding triangle pose for the rest of time.
That goes for the good things as well. Enjoy the beautiful moments when you have them because they won't last forever. Everything is temporary. Everything ends. And something new is always ready to begin.

2. Accept help

I used to hate asking for help, or even accepting it when it was offered. I felt like a nuisance to the person helping me.
 But it's pretty hard to get through travelling, especially in India, without at some point needing somebody's help. Whether you've had your wallet stolen are stranded with no money, or you're so sick you can even imagine moving, but desperately need water. You need help. I've been both the helper and the helpless, and I've found that when I'm the one doing the helping I enjoy doing it. Helping someone who needs it feels good. Since realizing this, I've become more open to accepting help when I need it. And as a result, I have accomplished things I maybe never would have otherwise, and made meaningful, lasting friendships along the way.

3. Not everybody has to like you. And not everybody will.

I have met a lot of people travelling and the great thing about it is that many of these people are like minded individuals who share my views on important things and have similar values. I've made a lot of lifelong friends. But I've also learned not everyone is my new best friend. I have also come across people who have no interest in getting to know who I am or what I'm about, for any number of reasons. And that's okay too. I just have to remember that whether or not this person likes me has nothing to do with me as a person.
Every person deserves the same compassion. Even if they don't treat me with kindness, I resolve to treat them better than they treated me. I don't know what they've been through, but I know what I've been through and I know that the kindness of others along the way is what has helped make me who I am today.

4. Trust your instincts

Travelling alone, you find yourself constantly coming across opportunities to experience amazing things. You meet so many people that want to show off their country or way of life. In order to experience these things, you have to trust.
I have found that in most cases, I get a certain vibe, be it good or bad, within a minute or so of meeting someone. I have a feeling of whether or not this person is wanting to help me or harm me. I have learned to trust these instincts and because of that, I've had some amazing experiences and avoided some potentially dangerous or not so great experiences.
Instincts are a beautiful thing. Learn to trust them and they will never lead you astray.

5. Things are only things

Possessions come and go often when you're living out of a backpack. Climates change and you have to leave clothing behind in order to make room for more weather appropriate attire. Things get ruined. You get stuck in the rain and your not so waterproof camera gets wet. Things get lost. Things get stolen. But I've learned through the impermanence of my few possessions that I can always live without it.
Sometimes we get so attached to our possessions that we care more about them than other people or the experiences we are having. Don't forget that things are only things. They come and go. Be okay with letting things go. 

The Lonely Mountain Chapter 2: Yuruche to Yuruche

I woke up bright and early the next morning feeling excited about the day ahead. So excited in fact, that I only ate half of my breakfast and was packed and ready to go before anyone else was done eating. "Ready already?," the guide from the day before asked me.
"She's always ready," said one of the French girls.
"Sometimes she walk, sometimes she fly," replied the guide. I laughed and said goodbye to everyone I had met and told them perhaps I would see them later on the trail before it split. And with that, I was on my own again.
I stepped out of the home and on to the path. The mountains on one side, and the stream on the other. I started walking down the path, full of confidence. I jumped down into the stream bed and was hopping from rock to rock trying to keep my shoes dry and rapping "I am a God" at the top of my lungs. In the distance, I could see a path going between two mountains, so I set my sights there. After about half an hour, I reached the path. I followed it for a few minutes when suddenly it did a 180 and led up a hill. It seemed strange to me that the path would turn like that, but there was clearly no other way, so I followed it. At the top of the hill, the path turned again back the same way it was to begin with. This reassured me and I continued on my way. After about ten minutes however, the path was so faint I could barely keep track of it. Every once and a while, a hoof print would faintly appear ahead of me, and this would comfort me enough that this was the correct way, and I would keep walking. But eventually, even the hoof prints were nowhere to be seen, and I found myself standing among the biggest mountains in the world, lost, and completely alone. No need to panic yet though. My iPod told me it was only 11:00. I had been walking for three hours. If I had to turn around and retrace my steps, I would still make it back to Yuruche by 2:00. Plenty of time before it gets dark around 7:00. So I weighed my options. I could turn back, accept that my 6 hour day was a loss and try again the next day. I turned and looked back at all the distance I had covered and instantly knew this wasn't an option. There was no way I was walking another three hours back the exact same way I had just come. This left one option. I turned to face the mountains ahead. I squinted. There! Up that mountain! A path! My heart leapt. I would have to walk about 400m horizontally across the mountain I was currently standing on, but I could make it. Balancing myself on the sliding rocks, I slowly started to make my way across the steep mountain, the rocks slipping with every third step sending me sliding down on my side for a few feet. Finally, I made it to the path. About 30 feet lower on the slope than where I started, but I was there. I assessed the road ahead. The path went straight up. The rocks were bigger however, so at least they wouldn't slip as much. I took a big gulp of water, and started the ascent.
Three steps in: I collapse, exhausted on the rocks. Trying desperately to suck enough thin air into my burning lungs. I sit for 30 seconds. My head stops spinning. I look up at the path ahead. I have a dark realization. This isn't a path. People bring horses on this trek. There is no way a horse can rock climb. I looked behind me and suddenly saw for the first time what I was really looking at. It's not a path. It's a dried up stream bed. About 30m up, the stream turns around what looks to be the highest rock, dusted with glittering snow. Despite the fact that I am now irrefutably off the trail, I still can't bring myself to turn around. I think I can make it to that rock. Then maybe from the top I will be able to see the path and get to it. So I climb, collapsing every third step, gasping for air. Finally, after what seems like an eternity, I could almost see around the rock. One more three step journey. I pull my pack straps tight and hoist myself up. 1...2...3...I can see... Another mountain. A higher one. No great view. No path. Another mountain. I collapse, utterly spent, and stare down the mountain at the distance I've covered, imagining the stream bed flowing freely with my blood, sweat and tears. I sit like that for a long time.
Eventually, I had to bring myself to acknowledge that I'm going to have to turn back. At least to where I last saw the true path. I still hadn't given up hope that I could make it to Skyu before dark. I refused to look at the time though, out of fear that it would be too late and I would have to give in. I started to descend and it immediately became clear that descending on these rocks is not much easier than going up. After a few feet, I took off my backpack, took out my camel pack, and kicked my backpack down the slope. I watched it roll a few feet down the mountain, taking some loose rocks with it. I followed. And like that, I climbed down.
I walked for a long time back in the direction I had come from, still refusing to check the time. Finally, I came across the place where the path had turned so sharply. I scanned the dirt for new footprints, showing that my new friends had followed after me. But found only hoof prints, and occasionally the faint sign of my own shoe. This was the wrong path. I sat down, exhausted and shrunk lower and lower into the earth as I realized the inevitable. I would have to spend another night in Yuruche. Eventually, I worked up the energy to stand, and started following the stream back. This time, I didn't bother to hop from rock to rock. I just let my shoes get wet.
Maybe an hour or so later, the home stay appeared in the distance. I didn't even have the energy to be frustrated any more. I decided to press on without a break until I reached it. It was a longer walk than I had anticipated, but I refused to stop. When I finally arrived, I fell onto the front steps, took off my pack, and closed my eyes. I was so entirely out if energy, I could scarcely imagine how I would walk up the steps to the bedroom. I laid on the front steps for about 15 minutes, drifting in and out of sleep. I awoke to the sound of voices approaching. I pressed myself up in time to see a couple approaching with a guide walking a few steps ahead. "Where did you come from today?" The guide asked when he was close enough to yell.
"Here." I yelled back, and smiled faintly. He gave me a confused look. When he was close enough to speak to at a regular volume, I explained to him that I had come from Zinchen the day before and had set out for Skyu that morning but had somehow gotten lost.
"Ma'am... how? The path is very simple," he said, offering no sympathy.
"I don't know," I replied weakly, and lay back down on my makeshift porch bed.
"There are some tents about 35 minutes ahead if you want to stay there," he said, "They're cheaper and will make for a shorter day tomorrow."
I peered at him from under my heavy eyelids. "35 minutes?" I asked. He nodded. I pulled out my iPod and checked the time for the first time since that morning. It was 5:30. I had  already walked for over nine hours, including the scaling of a rock face. What was another 35 minutes? "Okay." I said, hoisting my pack onto my back and standing up. At least this way I wouldn't have to tell the whole story to the people at this homestay. So from there, the four of us set off. The guide and his clients, (couple from France) and me bringing up the rear. After about ten steps, I realized how I had gotten so hopelessly lost. Where I had jumped down into the stream bed that morning, I had left the blatant path. Ten steps into my journey I was already on the wrong path. How I made such an obvious, silly mistake, I will never know. But at least now I was going the right way.
Twenty steps later, I found I could no longer put one foot in front of the other. I dropped my pack to the ground and curled up beside it, using it as a pillow. I laid like that for about 5 minutes, until I had enough energy to stand again. Ten steps later, I collapsed again. By this point, the other three were so far ahead they were almost out of sight. I carried on like this the whole way.
An hour and forty five minutes later, I finally arrived at the tents. The sun was sliding below the mountains and the sunlight was quickly fading. The French couple and their guide were nowhere to be seen. I sat down in a small plastic chair, pulled my sweat pants and socks out of my pack and wriggled into them while I waited to for someone who owned the place to surface.
I must have fallen asleep in the chair, as the next thing I knew I was being gently prodded awake by a small Tibetan man. I reluctantly opened my eyes and he was looking at me with a big toothless grin on his face. I couldn't help but smile back.
"Can I stay?" I asked. He nodded and pointed behind him. One of the tents had been prepared for me while I dozed in the chair and was waiting with the door tied open and the blankets pulled back. I can safely say I have never seen a more inviting sight as long as I've lived. I thanked him profusely, grabbed my pack, and climbed in. I meant to lay down just for a minute before organizing my things and having some dinner, but the second I laid my head on the thin, cold pillow I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep and didn't awake until the next morning. 

The Lonely Mountain Chapter 1: Zinchen to Yuruche

The Markha Valley trek is a common choice among hikers in Ladakh. It's relatively mild difficulty and choice of two nights or five make it accessible to many. I chose this trek because I didn't have enough money to pay a guide, and figured since it is such a common trek, the path should be quite easy to follow. I seem to have temporarily forgot that I have absolutely no sense of direction and a knack for getting lost. But we'll get there.
    The first day started in a place called Zinchen and was to end, five hours later in a village called Yuruche. It just so happened that six others (two Israeli guys and four French girls) were starting the two night trek from the same place on the same day, so the seven of us shared a taxi to Zinchen. About 25 minutes into the ride, the car suddenly stopped. We looked out to see that the road had been blocked by a massive landslide. Rocks were piled up almost 3 meters high. There was no question, we were walking from here. As we donned our gear and said farewell to our driver, the words of my friend from earlier echoed in my ear. "This is a good year to do this trek as it is the last year you can do it without a guide," he had said, "many people died on the trek this year. In fact, just a couple of days ago, an Israeli girl died in a landslide."
As ominous as a beginning it seemed, my anxieties were soon forgotten as the landslide was left behind and the mountains enveloped me on all sides. The first day was glorious. I passed a couple of people along the way, but for the most part, it was just me and the Himalayas. I stopped for tea in a little tent about two hours in, and from there, the path took a sharp left turn. I continued on about ten minutes down the path when a passed a Shepard going in the other direction. He asked me where I was headed. When I told him, he laughed and pointed back the way I had come. "You are headed to Stok," he said. Stok is a town near Leh. Had I continued on that direction, it would have been a very short trek indeed. He told me to follow him, so turned around and walked straight back to the tea tent. From there, he pointed me in the right direction and again I was off. I stopped for a short break every half hour or so for water and to enjoy the beautiful scenery around me. Even with the breaks and the slight detour, I arrived in Yuruche an hour and a half ahead of schedule. I put my things in my room (which was just big enough to fit a mattress on the floor and my backpack beside it) took my tea and book, and sat down beside the path to wait for the others I had passed.
Over the next hour or so, they slowly trickled in group by group. First came an English couple I had passed near the beginning and their guide.
"What time did you arrive?" The guide asked.
"1:30," I replied, "What time is it now?"
A quick glance at his watch revealed the time to be 2:15.
"Good pace," he said.
"I have long legs," I replied.
"No, you are strong. Your pack is heavy. It's a good pace."
I smiled in spite of myself. I was starting to think maybe trekking was my thing after all.
As the rest of the groups arrived, we congregated on the roof in the quickly disappearing sunlight and talked about our travels, our countries, what brought us to India. Every once in a while we would find ourselves in the shade as the sun sunk ever lower below the mountains and we would move further over to take full advantage of the sun's rays. Eventually, it disappeared all together and we were driven inside by the plummeting temperatures.
There, we played cards, had dinner, and at 8:00, found ourselves overwhelmingly sleepy. Despite the early hour, we all retired to our respective rooms, preparing for the next day which the guides had told us consisted of a three hour climb up to a 4500m pass, and a four hour descent to our next town of Skyu. The first day of my trek had been perfect. Besides the short detour, the path had been easy to follow, my pace was good, my pack hadn't proved too heavy. I went to bed feeling confident and optimistic about the next day. Perhaps too optimistic as the next day would show...

The Gift of Being Present

     One of the most amazing things I have found since I began travelling, is how important it is to be present. So often, my mind completely takes over and I get so lost in my thoughts that I completely miss the present moment. I think "wow, this is beautiful." And immediately my mind starts creating the Facebook status I'm going to write about it later, or imagining how I'm going to describe this beauty to a friend or family member at home. Meanwhile, the beauty is still all around me, but my busy mind has made me blind to it.  
But lately, I've been making a conscious effort to stay present. To truly take in the vast beauty of what I'm seeing.
In the first case, the mind knows what it's seeing is beautiful. It's an automatic response to say "this is pretty." But then it gets immediately distracted.
When I'm making an effort to be present, to still the mind and take in the beauty with the eyes of the soul, it feels completely different. The trees and the mountains are alive. My mind is still, but I can feel to the core of my being the beauty that is all around me. The beauty is reflected inside me and I know that all beings everywhere are one.
It's almost comparable to someone telling you you look nice, but the good feeling is multiplied by millions. Trillions even. Because it's not my outer appearance (which isn't truly me and will one day disappear) that is being complimented. The entire earth is complimenting everything good within me. And I KNOW it to be true! What a better feeling than looking out at this amazing, gorgeous, living, breathing planet of ours, and knowing that all of that beauty and more exists within each and every one of us, whether we realize it or not.
Often times, when my mind switches back on by force of habit, my first thought is an overwhelming urge to hug everything and everyone on this earth. I feel so connected to my fellow beings and the only way my mind can attempt to grasp this feeling is by wanting to be physically close to everything. Which of course is impossible. But imagine if everyone made a conscious effort to be present? Human destruction would cease. Killing of other sentient beings, the destruction of this amazing planet we live on. It would all stop. Because people would realize that everything out there is an extension of themselves.
I believe we have all had glimpses of this feeling, when the sheer beauty of something stops our thoughts, if only for a few seconds. Next time, try to make it last. Or create it for yourself. Any time, any place. You don't have to be overlooking snow capped mountains in northern India. You can look up at the deep blue sky on a summer day. Or allow the sheer vastness of the universe to overwhelm you on a clear night. You can find beauty in the untouched white after a fresh snowfall or in the sincere smile of a perfect stranger. But notice it. Really notice it. Feel it. Become present. Feel the earth beneath your feet and trust it to hold you. Feel the tickle of the breath on your nostrils and focus all of your attention on this moment right now. Allow yourself to receive the greatest compliment you can ever receive and relish in it, if only for a few seconds. Ain't nothing going to make your day like that. 

Expectation is the root of disappointment

About a week ago I went to a place called Dalhousie to climb the infamous Adam's Peak. The climb consists of 5800 stairs. We woke up at about 2AM and started the trek, hoping to arrive at the peak by sunrise. It is a treacherous climb. The pathway is pitch black, foggy, and infested with leaches. The stairs get extremely steep, especially near the top, and the wind is very cold and very strong. About halfway up, my friend decided to turn back. But I was under the impression that once I reached the top, all of my hard work would be rewarded with a gorgeous view of the sun rising over the hills and nearby lake. So I kept on. A few minutes after Kate turned back, I caught up with a couple of guys from Slovenia. The three of us huffed and puffed our way up the last half and arrived at the top an hour and a half before sunrise. It was only slightly above freezing at the top and the wind felt like it would tear my skin right off my bones. We found a little alcove where the force of the wind was slightly lessened and we waited.
As time progressed, more and more people arrived at the top. Eventually, the two Slovenians, three Brits and I decided to move to a little hallway we figured might give us slightly more of a reprieve from the wind pelting us with icy rain drops. The six of us hung out in that hallway for the next hour keeping each other warm with liquor and huddles. We shared stories of our travels and joked about our dire circumstances.
     Eventually, the time came for sunrise. We zipped and hooded up, and left our little hallway braving the cold for the spectacular sunrise we were sure to see. Well... We saw nothing. It was too foggy to even tell where the sun was supposed to be. Our spectacular sunrise ended up being the sky gradually, uniformly lightening while the wind tore at our clothes and faces.
     When I realized we weren't going to see anything, I had two choices. I could allow the dread that I could feel at the peripheries of my mind to take over. I could let my heart sink. I could allow disappointment to take over and leave a sour stain on everything I had so far experienced that day.
Or, I could be thankful for the experience that I had and enjoy it for exactly what it was.
     My first instinct was to be disappointed. We had come all this way, climbed all these stairs just for the view! I wanted the view! But as I felt my previous good mood melting away, I decided to take a step back and try the second option.
     The past two hours had been amazing! I had managed to keep climbing even when my muscles were screaming at me to stop. I had conquered 5800 stairs before the sun was even up. I had laughed and shared stories with people I otherwise would never have met and bonded with these same people as we huddled together to keep each other warm in the cocoon of blue fog that was stealing our sunrise.  I may not have seen the view I came for, but I had a great morning. It wasn't what I expected, but should that make it any less positive?
    Expectation is the root of disappointment. Expecting things to work out a certain way can often blind us from seeing the good in the way they do work out in reality. I'm learning to let go of expectation and be present. Suddenly, life seems so much sweeter.