The Ascension – Adam’s Peak

6 Nov

Gateway to start of ascent

I felt good when I woke up that next day. I had some eggs and toast and a full pot of Sri Lankan premium black tea. Nothing — not wind, rain, cold — would hold me back from trekking up to Adam’s Peak. I set off with a brisk pace and at first couldn’t believe my good luck — the conditions were cloudy, but there was no rain. I actually thought the clouds may break-up and the sun would come out. The first leg of the trail took me through a base camp area for pilgrims. There were rows of concrete pit toilets, basic sleeping bunkers, and a large standing statue of the Buddha. I walked past these and then came to a grove where there was a statue of the Buddha in his lion pose (the reclining posture he took at Kushinagar before he died) and there was an ornately carved stoned gateway that marked the official entry to the path that would take me for the next 5km or so up to Adam’s Peak. The initial 1km was more or less a comfortable, steady incline where I walked on a muddy clay.  The next marker of note was a Japan-Sri Lanka Friendship Dagoba that was built a few decades ago, and there were some stone benches for pilgrims to rest on here. Waterfalls streamed from the cliffsides above this pagoda, and as I looked beyond the ravine ahead that’s where I saw the heavy sitting mist ahead.

View of the Japan-Sri Lanka Friendship Dagoba

It was hard for me to judge where the summit was from here. I just couldn’t see anything above the mist. The mountain face was complete hidden. I wasn’t concerned by the situation. There was something completely exhilarating by just letting go and having nature dictate things. I would have to take one step at a time and rise further and deeper into the mist.  There was also no one else on the path! I had yet to see anyone coming down or passing me. During the pilgrimage season, I had heard people crammed on the narrow trails and when you got close to the top, there was only enough space for people to file by one at a time and so there could be hours of waiting while pilgrims carefully passed one another. I  did not have to worry about any human traffic jams. I was going to enjoy every step up. I had packed some food and water, and I would shoot some video along the way. The only traces of pilgrims that I saw were the many lost sandals strewn about here and there.

Self-explanatory signpost

About an hour and a half into the ascent, I noticed a steady rain was falling. Not big drops — only pinpricks and they felt sharp upon impact. I was inside the outer layer of the mist and every now and then I was blasted by a gust of wind. When I got to a rest area, I sat down and took about a 10 minute break. I could imagine that during the pilgrimage season this rest area had to be packed by tired pilgrims who would pass out some tea to drink and share conversation about how much longer it would take to get to the top. It was a bit eerie to sit there all alone thinking about how many souls typically filled the area as they sought the merit that would come from accomplishing the climb. I assumed that I was about halfway up to the summit at that point. As I got up and began to hike again, the wind grew stronger and buffeted against me. I would take a step up and get hit by a blast, and then take 3 or more steps, and get hit again. I put my head down and went through it the best I could, but my thighs and knees began to slowly ache. After about another 30 minutes, I came across a sign that said the Buddha had torn his robe in this spot and he had stopped his climb until he was able to mend the loose strands of his robe so they would not get caught on the brushes and rocks along the way.  In order to commemorate that moment, pilgrims take a long white string from this spot and carry it along the railing until the entire string has been unwound and released.  I could see all these strings placed along the path up from where the Buddha had torn his robe.  They hung like a tangle of wet spider webs and it energized me to be connected to the Buddha in such a concrete way. I was actually walking in his steps now and the strings before me were reminders of his own journey.

Stringed remembrances of the Buddha’s torn robe

Then, as the strings dropped away, I found myself in the mouth of a cloud. Visibility was limited to only about 20 feet or so and the rain was colder now. I told myself I must be about an hour away from the summit, but there was no way to know for sure. I couldn’t see the top. I couldn’t really see anything except endless steps that cascaded into whiteness. I was literally on a stairway to heaven, but had no idea how long it would take to get there. I powered through the next 30 minutes and then another 30 minutes, but whenever I thought – aha – this must be the last stretch – I was wrong! And that happened over and over again, but I noticed the trees dropping away and getting smaller and more rock face appearing. I kept on going driven by a spiritual hunger I had never known before. I rose higher and the steps became steeper and thinner. I was squarely in the center of the monsoonal cloud now. The rain continued to fall in sharp incessant beats. The wind was not only wild, but it howled and howled. So much so that I thought of the song “Wild Is The Wind” and began to sing it to myself. The stones were slippery and I had to sidestep dozens of tree branches, rock debris, and rivulets of mud. Each time I looked up I still only saw the thick cottony blanket of a cloud which enveloped the peak. I pushed myself upwards and into the cone — into what appeared to be the dividing line between cloud and sky, earth and heaven. It had to be at hand.

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