You stand by the rushing river, waving frantically to the shepherds without their flock who are walking on the other side of the river. They smile, wave, talk to each other, wave again, then use dung start a fire and make a pot of tea. You regret leaving your cook stove behind. Regret leaving your tent behind. Regret trusting that a friend would provide you with these things since you were going to do this trek together and didn’t need to carry double of these heavy items. How were you to know he’d fall in love with a doctor by the time you met up in the Himalayas?

You look across the river and see the men gathered, drinking hot tea, smoking. You look at your sheet of plastic held down by rocks. You pull out a package of dried fruit and long for something hot to drink, something else to eat, even the dung is looking tasty. If you could cross the river, you’d follow the shepherds. You don’t care where they’re going. You’re tired of being alone. You don’t even have a pan to heat water. You did buy that heavy iron kerosene cook stove for five bucks, but there was no kerosene available since trucks couldn’t make it up to the village to bring supplies. Those hippies in Dharmsala were ecstatic when you gave them the heavy stove. Said they’d been living there since the 60’s. Then why didn’t they have a cook stove? Surely they could’ve saved five bucks in all these years.

You’re grateful for your warm sleeping bag. The shepherds have wool blankets. They don’t complain. They’re telling stories. Probably wondering what you’re doing all alone in the middle of nowhere. Wonder why you’re wearing a brace on your leg. Figure you’re a crippled American trying to write a self-help book on amazing mountain feats and meditation. You think about the trekkers you gave your laminated maps to after you changed your trekking destination, and decided to go elsewhere, not where you and that friend were going to walk. For no sensible reason, you decide to follow this obscure route. You trust the people who said it’d be easy to find the way to that village. Assure you there’s a great monastery, and that you can stay with the monks. Just follow the dung for three weeks and you’ll be there.

What dung? The dung the shepherds collect so there’s not a path to follow? The dung that’s on the other side of the river? The river that has knocked the bridges down and made it uncrossable. It’s as if the river doesn’t want anyone to cross. You’ve been alone too long. Your mind is warped. You believe the dung is following the shepherds. The river is in cahoots with the dung.

You have no idea where you are. At night, you wake up with the wind knocking down the rocks that hold your sheet of plastic in place. You’re amazed you haven’t had a concussion. Maybe you have and just don’t notice. The weeks pass like one long unstoppable day.

You look at the shepherds and scream at them to cross the river. They laugh and gesture for you to cross the treacherous river. You consider it. Anything would be better than this endless solitude. But death could be an even longer solitude. Eventually you’ll have to come across a village or find a shepherd on this side of the river. Why would the shepherds only walk on that side of the river? You wonder if you’re heading into another Kashmiri military zone and that’s why no one is around. You long to meet friendly soldiers. It is possible. You remember the kind soldiers who took you in when you stumbled across their base camp after walking along the deserted highway because it was closed to vehicles due to the endless landslides. All night they’d bring you chai. Smile. Make sure you were comfortable. You slept on a cot next to the stove. They fed you. Gave you whiskey when they noticed you were running to the latrine, over and over. . . If only the enemies treated each other with such kindness. If only. They gave you addresses of their homes, just incase you’d visit. A few men knew English and kept saying it was crazy for you to be out there alone. To be out there at all. They said they’d be dynamiting the snow off the road in a few days and would bring you some place nice. Told you go to Srinagar where people honeymoon. Or used to honeymoon before all this crazy fighting.

After a few days, you felt stronger and took off walking. Walk. Walk. Walk.

Now you’re here. The shepherds are sleeping so you lie beneath your sheet of plastic that’s snapping in the wind, listening to the rushing river, and feel like you’re walking in your sleep, walking to the village whose name you have now forgotten, along with that map someone drew with all those squiggly lines and indistinguishable mountain peaks and nonexistent roads, and the promise if you just follow the dung, you’ll find this village in about three weeks, but there will be other villages along the way, guest houses, food, everything. It’ll be a great trek. Don’t worry, just walk. Just walk. Quit dreaming and start walking. Surely, you’re almost there.