Namche’s roots, like Khum Jung’s, were deeply embedded in Frank’s life. When he first came to Namche in ‘67, the settlement was a hodge-podge of cut-stone buildings clinging to the shoulder of the Himalayan highlands. Life back then revolved around the hardy, stern-faced men and women connected to the land.
Now, so many years later, he looked out over the plunging Bhote River valley. A thin white mist shrouded the treed slopes in the distance. The sun was still behind the hills, but already its rays lit an ultramarine sky. He drank the last of his butter tea and set his mug on the wooden rail in front of him. In the hush of the early morning, he thought back to when his world consisted of working the mountaineering shop his father managed. The old stone building, now replaced by an Intern
