Soaked from the falling snow that melted all over my clothes and frozen from the events on and before Snow Mountain, I was pretty excited to finally reach the house where we'd be staying the night. This house was owned by our guide's cousins. And as we had run across another group during our descent from Snow Mountain, we rode back with them to the house at which we'd all be sleeping.
The house was nice. It was beautifully carved and painted in bright hues. The inside, while anything but warm, was at least lively and friendly.
We tried drying our socks and clothes by the fire in another part of the house and returned to the kitchen, where we all gathered together around the stove and talked before dinner. The mother of the house--and just one of the many chefs for the evening--didn't really say much, and neither did her child. Well, actually, because of the lack of communication we don't know if this cute, lion-hat-wearing rascal really was her child, her grandchild, or some other relative, but he was adorable all the same. These three other girls that we'd met on the route, however, had no problem talking. They talked up a storm, sometimes in voices too high pitched to be allowed.
Dinner was simple but plentiful. That was the problem, actually. I didn't hate the food, but it didn't exactly give me an overwhelming urge for seconds, either. The guides, who each ate at least four huge bowls of rice in addition to their soups (which reminded me painfully of the all too garlic-y ones from the preceding night), made fun of us for eating so little while they competed amongst themselves and bragged about who could eat the most. The social pressure to consume more of this home-cooked dinner was actually a little frightening.
Amy and I got cozy that night.
Our guide showed us to a small room with three beds where Amy and me would be joined by the three other girls from the road, apologizing for making us sleep in one bed together. At that point I honestly didn't mind. Not only was it not really a big deal to me to begin with, but I also hoped desperately that the body heat from two people sleeping in one teensy bed together would make the night a little warmer. But I was wrong. That night was painful. Amy and I each woke up several times in the middle of the night either to go to the bathroom (outside in the freezing night), blow our noses, or complain about the incessant dog barking coming from the first domestic animal I've ever had the urge to hurt. Sleeping right up against the wood wall that was the only division between me and the night air meant that I had a very cold butt the whole night.
The next morning, though, was great. We woke up around 5 (because of our inability to stay asleep), and turned on the light as soon as we realized that everyone else in the room was wide awake, too. Then we fell asleep for another hour and a half, getting the best rest of the night. With some of that scrumptious, freshly baked bread in our bellies we headed off.
At this point, I was sore. Understatement. I could barely move. My butt was so sore from the horse's saddle and my knees were in minimal functioning condition. I had no problem standing the muscle soreness, but the knee thing really slowed me down. However, although I was still not in possession of the healthiest lungs around, we were descending every minute, and my ability to breathe was only getting better and better. The scenery was more beautiful, too, it seemed. I was refreshed in a sense and ready to continue my journey.
After several hours of riding, and one stop at a temple on the way back, we arrived in Songpan. I remember that sensation of dismounting the horse. I was proud that I'd made it through three days of horse shit, mud, snow, frozen feet, peeing in the woods, and no change of clothes, and I was happy and thankful to have gone through three days of beautiful scenery, new experiences, meeting and talking with interesting locals, and living in the houses of friendly Tibetan people. It was a mixed feeling emotionally getting off that horse. However, I also recall quite clearly the feeling of intense pain as I hobbled slowly down the street to the hotel. I think it was worth it, though.
The house was nice. It was beautifully carved and painted in bright hues. The inside, while anything but warm, was at least lively and friendly.
We tried drying our socks and clothes by the fire in another part of the house and returned to the kitchen, where we all gathered together around the stove and talked before dinner. The mother of the house--and just one of the many chefs for the evening--didn't really say much, and neither did her child. Well, actually, because of the lack of communication we don't know if this cute, lion-hat-wearing rascal really was her child, her grandchild, or some other relative, but he was adorable all the same. These three other girls that we'd met on the route, however, had no problem talking. They talked up a storm, sometimes in voices too high pitched to be allowed.
Dinner was simple but plentiful. That was the problem, actually. I didn't hate the food, but it didn't exactly give me an overwhelming urge for seconds, either. The guides, who each ate at least four huge bowls of rice in addition to their soups (which reminded me painfully of the all too garlic-y ones from the preceding night), made fun of us for eating so little while they competed amongst themselves and bragged about who could eat the most. The social pressure to consume more of this home-cooked dinner was actually a little frightening.
Amy and I got cozy that night.
Our guide showed us to a small room with three beds where Amy and me would be joined by the three other girls from the road, apologizing for making us sleep in one bed together. At that point I honestly didn't mind. Not only was it not really a big deal to me to begin with, but I also hoped desperately that the body heat from two people sleeping in one teensy bed together would make the night a little warmer. But I was wrong. That night was painful. Amy and I each woke up several times in the middle of the night either to go to the bathroom (outside in the freezing night), blow our noses, or complain about the incessant dog barking coming from the first domestic animal I've ever had the urge to hurt. Sleeping right up against the wood wall that was the only division between me and the night air meant that I had a very cold butt the whole night.
The next morning, though, was great. We woke up around 5 (because of our inability to stay asleep), and turned on the light as soon as we realized that everyone else in the room was wide awake, too. Then we fell asleep for another hour and a half, getting the best rest of the night. With some of that scrumptious, freshly baked bread in our bellies we headed off.
At this point, I was sore. Understatement. I could barely move. My butt was so sore from the horse's saddle and my knees were in minimal functioning condition. I had no problem standing the muscle soreness, but the knee thing really slowed me down. However, although I was still not in possession of the healthiest lungs around, we were descending every minute, and my ability to breathe was only getting better and better. The scenery was more beautiful, too, it seemed. I was refreshed in a sense and ready to continue my journey.
After several hours of riding, and one stop at a temple on the way back, we arrived in Songpan. I remember that sensation of dismounting the horse. I was proud that I'd made it through three days of horse shit, mud, snow, frozen feet, peeing in the woods, and no change of clothes, and I was happy and thankful to have gone through three days of beautiful scenery, new experiences, meeting and talking with interesting locals, and living in the houses of friendly Tibetan people. It was a mixed feeling emotionally getting off that horse. However, I also recall quite clearly the feeling of intense pain as I hobbled slowly down the street to the hotel. I think it was worth it, though.