Tengboche, Debuche, Pengboche, Dingboche, Lobuche. The days and villages began to blur together in a single image of short stone walls, dusty pastures, alpine scrub, lodge kitchens, squat toilets, and frigid Himalaya mornings. Walking out at dawn to wash my face and teeth by the village stream, sitting back on my haunches as the icy water rises steaming off my face and neck and I breathe hard into the thin, frigid air. And of course, always, there was the monsoon fog. Throughout each day it perched shifty and billowing with ominous intent on the low valley walls, whitewashing the sky and
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