By Aryn Baker

Posted Monday, June 27, 2005; 20:00 HKT
After five hours of uphill struggle on the second day of the classic Himalayan trek from Paro, site of Bhutan's international airport, to Thimphu, the country's capital, your muscles will burn, the blood will pound in your ears, and your breathing will approximate that of someone with advanced emphysema. But when your guide urges you on, trust him—for it is at about this stage that you reach the 3,810-m-high ridge above Lake Jimilangtso. The setting sun bathes the mountains in an unearthly rose, and Venus is visible against a violet sky. The sheer beauty of it strikes you dumb. On the other side of the pass, on the banks of the lake, a bonfire flickers as porters set up your camp. Within the hour, you will be wrapping your hands around a steaming mug of sweetened Bhutanese rum and savoring your chef's startlingly fine creations—sautéed chanterelle mushrooms with tender shoots of fiddlehead ferns gathered en route, followed by ema datshi (the national dish of potatoes, chilies and cheese). All you have to do as night falls is eat your fill, crawl into your tent (which the porters have already set up for you), and zip the door shut. The next day may hold more trekking hell, but as your head hits the pillow, there is no doubt in your mind: to be under canvas in Bhutan is to discover the meaning of exhausted, elated bliss.

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