A Journey to Everest
The earth here is as dry and fragile as the air. Crumbling rocks, dust swept up by the crisp breeze, and smoke - smoke that reaches for the peaks. Jagged fields of ice grow from the parched, golden dirt. Yes, the earth and air here is dry, but not the rivers. The rivers rush down the valleys - gushing from melting glaciers and high frozen peaks, secret springs and the fresh snowfall that blankets the fields in the early morning. Angry rapids roar over the stones that roll towards cold, blue lakes. Minerals and prayers are swept lower and lower towards the sea. Yes, the rivers here are swift, but not the lakes. The lakes are placid - constant and vast. Small ripples dance across the fragile surface of the sacred water. The pebbles on the rocky shore play in the teasing waves. Birds find refuge on the shimmering pools that lay beneath the surging Himalaya. Yes, the lake lies low beneath the sky, but not the mountains. No, the mountains - they are the sky. They fill the space between Heaven and Earth in the most humbling array. From the steady foothills comes frenzy of unforgiving terrain. Rugged ridges slice through smooth stone, and frozen peaks erupt from the stormy clouds that cling like fingers to the steep incline. Howling winds slam into the rock and ice blankets the warm earth hidden beneath the surface. The freezing pulse of the mountains travels to where I stand, as I'm fixed - insignificant and unmoving - at the foot of Mount Everest. My lungs burn as I suck in the frigid air and I watch as snow flurries fall from the low clouds above. It is cold here, but my soul... my soul is on fire.