Additionally, as of right now, the snow is not accumulating, just melting into the soggy earth. The bad news is that all the water has turned our terrain into water filled rivulets, mini lakes and squishy, muddy messes. I put on my rain gear and dodge large puddles all the way into the squatter. At breakfast, Bart tells us about last September when he did this trek with another group. Even though GeoEx supposedly weeds out those unable to partake in highly strenuous travel such as this, we are told that one of the ladies was apparently so fat that she had to hire her own horse to do the walking for her. She rode through Kham like an obese Mary Magdalene. This woman also paid a significant fee in order to accomodate her additional duffle filled with 15 days of Jenny Craig packaged food. 45 meals plus 30 snacks in total. Apparently, the food went bad somewhere around day 5 so the staff disposed of it and the woman ate rice and latke potatoes along with everyone else. She did not do much walking to work off the additional calories, although Bart tells us she did walk some of today's trail, which will be largely flat and open. Bart then tells us that the hike we are doing today, they did coming from the other direction a year ago on their return trip to Kangding. He says it was a beautiful warm, sunny day and he wore Tevas and shorts for the walk. Rat bastard.
Once again, we have to repack all our gear, which is all fairly wet by now. My duffle is completely soaked. When I press the canvas in between my thumb and forefinger, I can see the water pushing away from the pressure point. I do the best I can to protect everything from getting any wetter but I know that placing wet clothes in sealed plastic is not an optimal long term option. I hope for the best: slightly damp but mold free clothing.
We head out fairly promptly, lured by the knowledge that we are headed to Yulong Xi village in which lives a local family known to our horseman, Dorji. He tells us that they will happily have us for a visit and some tea this evening. The thought of a warm fire at this point is a powerful enticement. Within minutes of our setting out, the light snow turns to a misty rain. I pop open my umbrella and press on, consciously deciding not to be troubled by the weather. The path we are following has been carved up by the wheels of tractor bikes, the transportation of a new era of yak herders. More often, we see yak herders busy at their work atop motobikes, motorcycles or tractor bikes, which are the most practical because of their ability to haul needed resources, such as brush, people or tools. It is a rare sight to see a yak herder on a horse. I make every effort to avoid the mud and water in the path by walking along the grass, which rises upward from the trail like small berms.
We walk in the rain through several herds of yak and I note the vast quantity of dung dotting the fields. Yak terd is not an especially common sight in the West, so as a means of description, let's just say that it gives a whole new definition to the term "cow pie." When I was in Bhutan, I took a picture of a terd sitting outside of the toilet tent. I was completely astounded by its mass. It must have been 14 inches in diameter. I don't see anything that grand here today but I have a lot of time to think so I start to wonder if it ever bothers the yaks to be walking and eating amongst their own shit. This, of course, makes me think about my cats and how I really need to be more attentive to the litter box. It really must be offensive to them to have to poop on top of poop, some of it not even their own. This thought makes me wonder if anyone ever comes out here to clear the poop, which reminds me of Shamus and Clodaugh, my Irish Wolfhounds who lived with me in Pennsylvania. I had about 3.5 acres there and the dogs roamed the property freely. Every weekend, I would place plastic baggies over my hands and head out to fling their poop into the fields of pachysandra where it could decompose out of sight. Do they fling poop here in Tibet?
I take out my little camera which I am able to protect from the rain under my umbrella because it is so small. I try to take a picture of yak poop next to a beautiful mass of wildflowers but the lens will not permit such a tight shot. I would have called it "Beauty and the Beast." The wildflowers grow in wide podlike masses so they appear as one large flower with thousands of miniscule petals. As each tiny flower dies, it dries up and flutters away, eventually leaving an empty grey pod casing punctuated with a mass of small holes. These casings are everywhere, sprinkled between live flowers, grass and poop.
Ahead of us, we see a yak tent and Bart suggests that we stop and dry off for a bit. A brief visit will also give our horses a chance to catch up to us.
As we make our way toward the tents, several herders emerge from it and wave to us, welcoming us in our approach. I stay outside briefly to call back to the rest of my group to let them know where we have gone. I wave my pole in the air and whistle as best I can and finally Julia waves her pole back in acknowledgement. 
I turn to the tent, bend down while taking a deep breath and crawl inside. Fortunately, it is not nearly as smokey in here as it was in the last yak tent I visited. I can actually breathe without coughing. We are welcomed by four herders, all with beautiful Tibetan faces and all very curious and happy to see us. Once we are seated on "couches" made of blankets, clothing and carpets, one of the herders offers us the tea pot. He points to our packs and gestures for us to pull out our cups from them. 
We explain with a mixture of hand signals and shrugs that we have no tea cups with us, which our hosts clearly find perplexing. Considering the importance of tea in the Tibetan diet, this is certainly understandable but we still think their reaction is quaint. Julia, Louise and Carol join us within about 15 minutes and after a few moments of warming up, Carol shares her photo book and the rest of us take photos of the Tibetan men, showing them the images on our digital screens. They find this very amusing. We don't stay long in the tent, just long enough to dry off a bit and have a few moments out of the rain. As we move to depart, our Tibetan hosts jump out of the tent before us. They are gesturing back and forth between their tractor bike, motorcycle and each of us. All of them have big smiles on their faces. While admittedly, a motorcycle ride across these bumpy, lumpy hills with one of these guys would be quite an adventure, we all politely refuse. We want to walk, we tell them, even if it is raining. One of the men then runs to his bike and pulls out a pair of gloves. He tries to give them to Julia who he has noticed is wearing socks on her hands. Of course, Julia is intentionally wearing socks today because they keep her hands warmer than the gloves she brought from home. We are all taken aback by this man's generosity. Here we are, a bunch of highly equipped Americans and one Dutchman, clearly not in need of anyTHING much at all, and this man who retrospectively I realize has EVERYthing he needs is offering us his gloves. We all feel humbled and tentatively bow, hands clasped prayerfully at our chins as we attempt to say Tashe Dale, Tibetan style.
We continue through the Xulong Xi Valley for a couple more hours. Our visibility is limited because of the fog, and very different from the images of the valley featured in Bart's pictures from his trip here last year. As is typical for much of Tibet, the mountains and much of the terrain is usually quite dry and brown. I almost think our flower dotted green perspective is more beautiful, despite the weather.
We see many mani stone monuments along the way as well as cairns of mani stones. 
All are homages to local lamas who have passed on.We see a house up ahead and decide it is our best potential for eating a sheltered lunch. After hiking diagonally up the lumpy field before it, we are dissappointed to find the front door padlocked and the window, paned with plastic, closed.
I presume that if no one is home, no one will mind if I drop my bag in the doorway and sit under the eave to eat my lunch. I am joined by my trekking companions and soon thereafter by our staff and horsemen/woman. I have more than enough to eat and I see that Dorji has nothing so I offer him my peanut butter sandwich. He accepts it with such gratitude and with the same broad smile he has worn since day one. When a yak herder approaches the house on a motorcycle, we each quietly hope he is the home owner so we can dry off inside. But he is just a curious passer by, riding up to us to say hello.
We chat for a couple minutes and we all move on.I hike for the rest of the afternoon through the flat valley with our horses. I try to focus on them rather than the rain but it's no use. I cannot get my mind off of how wet I am. After several hours, I see the Yulong Xi Village running along the other side of the river.
There is a large chorten surrounded by several beautiful examples of traditional Tibetan homes. It's a veritable city after these days in the middle of no where and yak herder tents. And it's a true sight for sore eyes, especially the smoke rising from each roof. Fire! Warmth! The possibility of drying off! We slow down and allow our horses to move ahead 
so the staff can make headway on pitching our camp at the base of the village. When we arrive in the camp site 15 minutes later, we are met by a woman who lives just over the river. She is joined by Dorji in signaling to us to follow her up to her house. I am feeling very happy indeed to follow her lead. We enter the house through an outdoor courtyard with three or four yaks grazing in it. A lean-to is built along the wall to the right and shelters equipment and wood planks. The ground leading to the house is completely saturated so that puddles of water have formed small ponds. I walk right through them and into the lower floor, which is pitch black. I put down my umbrella at the door and wait a couple of seconds to allow my eyes to adjust. As I step into the space, I realize there is a large black yak laying on the dirt floor to my left. He holds up his head to acknowledge me and just as quickly, puts his head back down.
The woman of the house beckons me toward her. I step forward tentatively because it is very hard to see and the floor is bare earth, dried and uneven. I see that my hostess is motioning toward the entrance to the living quarters, which as in all Tibetan homes, is situated on the second and third floors. To get there, she points to a staircase, which is actually a wide ladder positioned at about 80 degrees relative to the dirt floor. I grab both sides and pull myself up one rung at a time until I step off the ladder into a central hallway with four doors leading into different rooms
. Another staircase (actually, more of a log with chipped out steps) is leaning in the corner in front of me and leads to the third floor. Under it is a pile of wood and kindling and behind it are empty beer bottles, brooms and other supplies. To my left, is a door which leads to the bathroom, a misnomer if there ever was one. Is it a restroom? Powder room? No, even WC does not apply. And loo is too sweet a term to adequately describe the room before me. There is no bath in that room. It is in no way restful. I won't be hanging out in there to powder my butt, much less my nose. And there is no water in that closet. It's a crapper. An indoor outdoor outhouse. It's literally a box nailed to the side of the second floor of the house. Looking at the box makes me wonder why Americans use such evasive terms to refer to the toilet. We "go to the bathroom" or "the restroom" but we never, ever go to the toilet. Some would suggest that that is too much information. It seems the word "toilet" is too crass for our puritanical sensibilities. I wonder, does the word conjur more vivid images of what we actually DO in it than, say, the word "restroom" does? Why is that? Right about now, one of my favorite words in the English language is toilet and if I could, I would tell everyone that I am going to use it and exactly why. But that is not an option.
One nice thing about the box is that when you are in it, you can see through the large gaps in the planks around you and enjoy a great view of the mountains and fields while you go about your business. It's a decidedly better view than the one under the box. I decide that for now, I'll stick to the toilet tent, which by comparison seems like a tremendous luxury. Ironically, the box is a luxury for these Tibetans.
Across from the box are two doors and I am led through one into a large open room that is paneled in pickeled pine. Most of it is actually built in cabinetry with door after door hiding cabinets and closets for storage. The paneling is decorated with geometric and floral paintings as well as colorful paper cut outs and a giant image of the Potala. 
The room is divided into distinct sections, which strangely reminds me of an office I once visited on the Columbia Pictures lot. A mutual friend had arranged for me to meet with the head of Worldwide Productions for networking purposes when I first moved to LA. I was escorted into a tremendous room, larger than my apartment at the time, and seated on a big cushy couch. If the size of a man's office is an indication of his importance, I thought, this guy must be invaluable or better yet, a god! I had been seated in what appeared to be a living room and from my vantage, I could see that there were three other distinct sections to the space, each roughly the size of this one (25x25). There was an office proper, a media/viewing room and a dining room that seated at least 12. The guy was incredibly generous with his time and tried to help me out by arranging a meeting for me with his publicity group. But those people were so crazed and coked up, insisting that to be successful there, my life needed to be MOVIES, MOVIES, MOVIES. I was so freaked out by them that I ran from the building and cried for 20 minutes in my car. But the office, that was impressive.This room is not quite so large. Maybe 30x20. Directly in front of the door is the kitchen, which includes several shelves of pots and bowls, a large vat for water that is carried up from the river and a table under the window for preparation.
Our hostess moves to the corner and begins to churn the butter for our tea.
In the middle of the room next to the kitchen area is the hearth, which is lined all around with low wood benches. It has a cooktop space on it and is set atop two steps which are used as a serving and dining table. Above the hearth, yak meat hangs drying in strips on some wood poles that have been rigged there for this purpose.
In the far corner next to the hearth is a living area comprised of a couple of couch/beds and two leather arm chairs. On the far wall to my right is a bedroom area with two beds and a dressing table with a mirror attached. This appears to be the living and sleeping area specifically for the ladies of the house. We are met by our hostess's sister and several children, all of whom gesture to us to take off our coats and have a seat. We are very happy to comply and hang our soggy jackets and outer layers from the paneling hardware. Our packs are strewn across the back floor as we take our seats along the benches and in the leather chairs, which are pulled up to the hearth to accomodate us.
Within minutes, our hostess has placed bowls in front of each of us along the hearth and poured each bowl to the brim with steaming butter tea. We each wrap our hands around a warm bowl, some of us sipping the brew, until it cools and we place them back on the hearth. Can you guess which is mine? 
We are offered a Tibetan flat bread as a snack while pictures are passed around. The Tibetans look at Carol's photo book and pull out a stack of 15 or so worn photos of their own. Many of the shots are of our hosts seemingly positioned in front of the Potala Palace, the Tibetan Mecca. Everyone dreams of one day seeing it for themselves, of making the journey to Lhasa and circumambulating the koras in prayer. In the meantime, they have their photos taken in front of a giant photo of it so it feels - on some level - as though they have already been there. Our hostesses point to the men in the photos and we learn that they are sisters and the one who led us into the house is the lady of the house, married to the home's owner. Her sister, who lives here too, is engaged to be married to a young man in one of the photos. She blushes when she tells us so. About an hour after we arrive in the house, our horsemen/woman and staff arrive to dry off by the fire. We decide to return to our newly erected camp at that time and give them the seats around the hearth. The younger sister takes my hand and leads me down the ladder/stair. I don't know what it is in me that brings out the maternal side of even those who are younger than I. In Jamaica years ago, I stayed at a family friend's estate overlooking Montego Bay. My sisters and my mother tagged along, as did my now former asshole of a brother in law who was then my sister Karen's dorky boyfriend (I'm being a little creative with history here. The truth is, he wasn't really a dork but he has become such an excruciating jackass that it's easier to think of him as always being a loser. It's a sister's perogative). We were 6 in total and cared for by a staff of 8. The head of staff was the sterotypical Jamaican lady, heavy accent, head wrap and all. Her primary responsibility was as chef so it was also her duty to do the marketing. One day, she asked if I would like to join her in this task and when I agreed, she immediately took my hand and held it from the moment we left the house to the moment we returned. I wondered if I should let her know that I was not 13, I just looked it. She was so happy to guide me around as though I was her baby. And now, in Tibet, I am being mothered by a girl who could be my daughter. She smiles at me the entire time, encouraging me down the ladder but looking as though she would really rather I not leave. I am a sort of novelty, I imagine, a toy she could pet and play with. At the door to the outer courtyard, she grabs my soaking wet straw hat and plunks it on my head. As I make my way across the courtyard, I turn to look at her staring at me leave. She waves one more time. All around me, I see nothing but snow. A wet, heavy, thick snow.
It is late afternoon when I crawl into my tent. I put on my headphones in an effort to drown out the incessant sound of precipitation on my roof. Being from Southern California, the sound of rain and the sight of snow or any other form of precipitation is generally a cause for celebration.
It's definitely a great reason to grab my camera. When it rains at home, I can actually hear the grass saying "Ahhh." A thunderstorm, even at 3am, is an excellent reason to jump from my warm bed in order to stand at a window just to watch. 
But here, right now, I just want to make it stop. There is moisture accumulating across the roof of the tent and I repeatedly wipe the tent's surface with my personal toilet paper supply. I am running low as a result, even though I use each wad until it is soaking. The tent is simply too wet to withstand any more moisture so I am caught in a tap dance of drying the surface and then whacking the roof with my pole in order to remove the snow that has accumulated there. I do this about every 20 minutes or so. Julia is in the tent about a foot from mine and I hear her scream for help. I jump from my tent and see nothing because her entire tent has caved in on top of her. It's white with little spots of orange showing through. I remove the snow as the staff runs over to re-pitch the tent. She is laughing, but it sounds more like frustration to my ears.
Since I am outside, I decide it is a good opportunity to pay a much needed visit. The toilet tent is privately situated behind a bush and the path to it is now covered in a good 6 inches of snow. I bang the snow off the top of the tent before trying to open the zippered door. I have to rub the zipper with my gloves because it has frozen in the storm. When I get into the tent, I opt not to zipper the door closed for fear that I will get stuck inside. I go about my business as quickly as possible but it is tricky since the floor of the tent is filled with snow. As I am readjusting my garments, I hit the nadir of this adventure when I slip and fall into the hole. Fortunately, my foot is preceded by a large mass of snow but I am not assuaged. I am officially sick of this weather.
At dinner, we all express our disappointment and frustration. We admit that if the snow does not let up, there is really not much point in continuing with the trek. All the passes will surely be impassable. We eat our dinner quietly and try to ignore the fact that the dinner tent is leaking badly and falling apart before our eyes. We head back to our tents and wake each hour for snow removal duty. Bart and Phillip take hourly turns to supervise our efforts and ensure that we are all reasonably well. There is so much snow that the sound of their hourly sentinel duty is squeaky and muffled, as though I am listening to them while under water.
