Literary Nonfiction. Poetry. Much has changed since my first visit to Nepal, 1979. The majestic peaks are still there, as are the people, the monks, the monkeys, and the festivities honoring the mountain spirits. Population has doubled, though. Kathmandu suffocates under an influx of rural people, many of them elders who've left the slopes to join their sons and daughters in the big city. The intimacy that drew the intrepid hiker into family homes, or to seek a one-on-one relationship with a local guide, has dwindled under a mushrooming industry favoring package tours and fancy inns. In 2018, international tourists visiting Nepal hit an all-time high of 1.

7 million. Record numbers of high-paying thrill seekers have clogged the slopes of Mt. Everest, and died there. Threequarters of the old Annapurna walking circuit has been replaced by roads. The deadliest one approaches Manang from the west, a widened pony track at best. I can imagine the modern "adventurer" hanging off the top of a jeep, GoPro strapped to his head, iTunes blasting through his Earbuds, sucking in diesel fumes, undergoing hours of backbreaking bounce and nerve-racking drops--eager to post his latest 70 thrill on Facebook or You Tube, not quite sure of where, exactly, he has been. Most of us who sought travel in the early days were called into distant lands by heightened curiosity and a questing spirit. We took to the road with minimal equipment, seeking source and renewal in the act of travel with its inevitable encounters and mysteries.

Bare to the world, we had little contact with those back home save for letters miraculously received in a distant post office, under "general delivery." The journey had mythic roots: a trail of confrontations, challenges, and a good dose of unpredictability to shake the belief system. Occasionally there would be a head knock, a revelation. To leave home was to discover another way back, and along the way become someone new.