I head to the toilet tent but it has disappeared over night. It must have fallen in early on and is now buried under several inches of snow. For this reason, I am forced to hide behind Bart's tent and pee in the snow, which makes me think of Frank Zappa. I begin obsessively singing "Don't Eat That Yellow Snow." 
Despite the miserable weather, I receive my morning tea and bathing water by 7:00am. After partaking of both, I pack up my belongings and make sure all items are covered with plastic as it is likely to snow through out the day. I get to the tent by 7:30am and find my three trekking companions talking about the conditions over toast and coffee. Apparently, Bart has suggested that we turn back. The weather does not appear to be letting up and we are unlikely to see anything and highly likely to have to re-route ourselves again.
I have to admit that his suggestion is a logical one. After all, I am the youngest person here by at least 15-20 years and you have to consider the needs and abilities of everyone involved. But then I remember the 20 hour flight and all the anticipation of coming here and immediately, I feel disappointed. So I am happy to hear Julia, Louise and Carol say unequivocably that they intend to move forward. The journey is the adventure after all. As I spread peanut butter on my toast, Carol suggests that when going over the pass, we should all agree to defer to Bart's direction versus that of our local guide, Phillip. We all know Bart well after having trekked with him in Bhutan and other locales and from what we have seen so far on this trip, there is no one else here I personally trust more. Of course, Bart's direction will be prioritized.
I go back to my tent to switch out my fleece gloves for a pair of socks. I should have brought my ski mittens but who in a thousand years would have thought I'd need them? I put up my goretex hood and place my straw hat on top of that. With the gooped up lip balm at the edges of my lips I am starting to work the "all lady" look. Oh, yeah. It is precipitating still but it's of a variety somewhere between a "dusting" and "spitting," as my mother would say.
We hang out in the dining tent and watch the staff take down our tents. That's mine there; the last one standing. When the staff makes sufficient progress, we head out of camp along a path that is defined only by snowy footprints. At first, 
we walk on loosely packed snow and as I walk along I am struck by the sense that all I can hear is wind and silence. Quickly, the snow deepens as we move further from camp so that most of the hike up the mountain is in roughly 10" of snow. Camp almost disappears from view only 500 feet away. 
After an hour, we reach 14,200 feet.
I am walking with Bart at the head of our group and we stop for a moment to take note of the trail, which we can see moving to the left and upward toward the pass. We continue walking the snowy path for another 200 feet, our feet sinking all the way down to the muddy earth beneath with each step. 
Unfortunately, I have no gators to help keep the snow out of my pants because REI said they were "out of season" when I went there before I left. I am praying that the velcro on the ankles of my snow pants will endure the hike. We continue on through knee high, then thigh high snow drifts and suddenly, we lose the trail. We look up to where the pass should be for guidance but there is nothing there. It's a white out and there is absolutely no distinction between the horizon and the mountain below. We can only see 50 feet or so ahead of us. We start moving in the direction of the path that sincs with our recollection of the trail but because we are "lost," we head straight up the mountain, rather than along a diagonal. At this altitude and in snow this deep, this is a huge physical challenge. But we must find a cairn or marker of any kind that will indicate where to go, so we just do it. Standing in snow up to my hip bone (knee high for your average height person), I finally stop and wait as Bart climbs up beyond our present location to scout things out. I definitely do not want to hike up this thing just to come back down it in a few minutes.
That would be a huge expenditure of energy for nothing. As I wait for him, Louise and Carol make their way to me. Julia and Phillip are not far behind them. 
Louise is calm and takes some water as she waits. I'm certain she has seen some pretty hairy situations while tracking animals in the swamps of Bolivia, although they would have been decidedly warmer. Carol, on the other hand, immediately starts asking where Philip is. He's the local guide, she says. He has been here many times. We should ask him where the trail is. (errrrrip...that's the record skipping) I gotta tell ya, I could care less about Phillip's opinions on topography. This is a guy who led me through holly bushes on my knees and called it a hike. I tell Carol to give Bart a moment. I am sure the white out will dissipate enough so that he can relocate the path. We could not have wandered very far from it. At that very moment, Bart yodels to us and points at something just below him. We all look over to the spot he has indicated and there, sticking out of the snow is a cairn. We have relocated the way, if not the trail itself. We trudge on through banks of snow and within 100 feet ascention from the cairn, we can actually see Gyazi La (15,000 feet) marked by three giant cairns and wrapped in prayer flags. 500 more feet of ascension and we are at the pass. Check out this view at Gyazi La!
I forgot to pack my prayer flags so I watch as Louise and Bart wrap their flags around one of the cairns and Julia poses perfectly with Louise for a photo. 
I will hang all four flags at the one remaining pass for Dad. About 5 minutes after we arrive at Gyazi La, our horses catch up to us. This is fortunate timing as there is no path ahead, even steeper snow and limited visibility.
The horses can readily cut (snow-whack) a trail for us to walk along by placing our feet down into the holes they leave. 
About 10 minutes down the slope from Gyazi La, I look to the mountain along my right and can only see a hint of light subtly highlighting the horizon and barely differentiating it from the mountain. I take out my camera and stop to take pictures. Everyone thinks I'm crazy because I'm taking a picture of nothing.
But perspective is subjective, as is art. The image reminds me of the Tony award winning play called "Art." I saw it in London with a friend at least 10 years ago. It's a musing on the definition of art as well as the question of it's financial versus intrinsic, real versus perceived value. The story centers on a man who has just made an enormous acquisition for his collection. He has spent a $1MM on a painting and is eager to share his prize with his friends. But when they arrive to view the canvas, all they "see" is a stark white, unmarked void. This, of course, leads into a philosohical debate: Is something more valuable merely because of the status society attaches to it? Is a thing elevated to "art" because Sotheby's said so? Or because someone "famous" created it? Is it "worth" what you paid for it? I think some of the answers are fairly obvious, but I was an art major (therefore, I have an opinion...which is not necessarily correct!). It's art when you behold it as such and it's worth is directly related to the extent to which you value it, financially and emotionally. The market side of the question is just economics. Unfortunately, we are a culture that ascribes financial value, and therefore stature, to anything tinged with celebrity. Where else are people famous for being famous and therefore able to generate significant cash for their trash on Ebay? We slip slide our way down from Gyazi La. We walk for an hour or so and see little more than the river to our left cutting a dark line through the snowy mountains.
We are all starting to get hungry for lunch, but there is nowhere to rest. We continue on until we reach what appears to be two stone foundations for yak tents. Some of the rocks have been blown free of snow so we head to them for lunch. As we pick through an assortment of foods packed in our lunch bins (Granola Bars from California, fried egg sandwich, pear, Chinese muffin), it starts to rain very softly. We put our hoods up and finish lunch just as we see someone coming. It's a man. He is walking along our path from the valley we are walking into. He has both hands behind his back and appears to be on a little stroll in his sweater and pants. We are literally miles from any tent or yak village in either direction so he is a curious sight. When he gets closer to us, he stops, turns to face us directly and waves. "Hallo!" he says, "Tashe Dale!" We respond in kind. And then he turns back to the path and continues on his way. We don't have too much further to go until we reach our camp so we dawdle a bit before setting back out. We quickly reach the valley floor, which is relatively clear of snow but is now very muddy. It is a relatively flat path and easy to walk especially after trudging through snow banks. I can see the pass behind us and a beautiful mountain range to my left. As I walk along, the fog parts across the sky above the mountains and reveals a blue sky.
I am so excited that I take a picture. It's the first blue I have seen for 4 days. It's fortunate that I take this picture because no sooner do I release the shutter than the fog rolls in like a giant wall. We walk the rest of the way in a hail storm. Once at camp, the hail turns to rain. Non stop, unrelenting, hard core rain. After dinner, I lay in my bag and wonder how it is possible that we have encountered such persistent terrible weather. Surely, it has to stop. Even the Tibetans are taken aback by it. They say they have never seen anything like it, especially at this time of year. And the Republicans say there is no global warming.
I try to focus on my book instead of the pounding sound on the roof of my tent. I started a new Amy Tan book called Saving Fish From Drowning. It is amusing but definitely not her best work. I laugh out loud as the main character (who is narrating events as a ghost watching them unfold) describes her Chinese funeral in San Francisco. The procession before her coffin is comprised of 10 or 12 people and each carry a tall banner featuring her portrait, smiling but decidedly unkempt. She notes that the picture was taken while she was on trek in Bhutan after more than ten days without washing her hair. This is why her face is dirty, freckled and make up free and her hair is smushed up in greasy bunches on top of her head. I am starting to feel as though I am sporting a similar look: happy but a bit rough around the edges.
As I read, I hear a cat meowing. I am in the middle of no where. It can't be a cat. But then I hear it again. MEOW. It is right next to my head out in the pouring rain. All I can think about are Isabella and Gracie.
I imagine them sitting in a thunderstorm and begging someone to let them in. I wish I could help this cat, but I can't touch the animals here so all I can think to do is unzip a section of the outer tarp in case the cat wants to sit in the vestibule and wait out the storm.
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