In Tibet, a Writer Finds Peace on a Trek to 18,000 Feet

Seven months after my sister died, my husband asked for a divorce. I tried to be a good wife — careful and polite, waking at 3 a.m. to write a novel while keeping my typing soft so it wouldn’t wake him. We had been together for over 19 years, yet by the end of the year it was clear that, though we remained legally married, he no longer saw me as his wife.

I found myself on the trail that loops around Mount Kailash, climbing toward the 18,471-foot Dolma Pass on what would have been our 20th anniversary. The tour had a fixed itinerary, and the guide urged me to hire a pony; I refused, remembering an old ride in Manali.

Ponies ferried other pilgrims as my legs and lungs burned, a marmot watched from a rock, and chunks of ice skittered down the mountains like exploding fireworks. Tibetan women passed me with a calm tashi delek as the thin air made every breath loud. The guide gave me a white oxygen can and, between talks about pilgrims and fortune, told me it would be good to die near Mount Kailash.

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