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Wanderlust
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If you take a bus from Kathmandu to the lakeside city of Pokhara, and fly from there to a Wild West frontier town called Jomson, you can walk (it takes about three hours, up the Kali Gandaki river valley) to the village of Kagbeni.

Kagbeni, despite the unsightly metal electrical poles lining the lanes -- "Next year," the locals say when asked when electricity will actually arrive; they've been saying as much since 1991 -- is a charming oasis surrounded by orchards and bisected by a swiftly moving stream. Mules and goats traverse the narrow streets, passing doorways where elderly women card goat and yak wool. The old Buddhist gompa has recently been restored, and the roof provides a spectacular view of Niligiri to the east and the Kali Gandaki to the north.

Kagbeni is the portal to Upper Mustang, an important leg of the old salt-trading route from Tibet. For centuries the region was a small Buddhist kingdom, with its own royalty and laws. The rajah lost his power in the 1950s, but the area -- thanks to its proximity to the Tibetan border -- remained closed. A sign at the edge of Kagbeni warned trekkers to go no farther; a police post just below ensured that they did not.

For 20 years -- since my first trek to Kagbeni in 1979 -- I longed to ignore that sign and continue on, traversing Mustang's harsh and spectacular terrain: a land more similar to the Tibetan plateau than the highlands of Nepal. The route continues northward for four days, traversing a raw and sacred landscape before arriving at the walled city of Lo Monthang. Until less than a decade ago, Lo was a world apart. Few Westerners had penetrated its secrets, and entering the gates was like traveling back to the 15th century.

Nepal opened Upper Mustang to trekking in 1992. Even so, the restrictions are daunting; visitors must pay a $70-per-day fee, with a minimum visit of 10 days. In managing the region, Nepal seems to have taken a note from neighboring Bhutan -- where a $250-per-day fee keeps the backpacking hordes at bay, and assures a minimum impact on the indigenous culture.

One month ago, I was finally able to make the journey to Lo. The trek through Mustang was unforgettable; it's a place where the drama of the landscape dovetails perfectly with the local mythology. Walking beneath a wall of tortured, blood-red cliffs, there's little doubt that this was the site where a bloodthirsty demon was eviscerated. The high passes and plunging canyons teem with immortal protector deities. Spartan meditation caves, cut at impossible heights on sheer cliff walls, make it possible to accept that adept monks and lamas can actually fly.

Geologically, the area is equally fascinating. Imagine Zabriskie Point, or Canyonlands. Now raise the landscape two miles high, paint it every color of the rainbow and stretch the brutal formations under 50 miles of periwinkle sky. Look down, though, and you're in for a shock: Intricate fossils lie scattered among the stones, reminders of the incredible fact that this lofty terrain -- much of it more than 12,000 feet above sea level -- was once an ocean floor.

Lo Monthang, when one finally crests the pass, looks like the promised land. Buckwheat and barley fields stretch beyond the ancient village, which is an impressionist collage of white, red and gray buildings. There aren't many materials to work with; structures are made of rammed earth, wizened branches and stone. Crumbling fortresses squat on bare surrounding hills, and the wind keens over aeries webbed with prayer flags. It seems, in short, like the end of the world.

This is why it was so shocking to learn, from a handful of well-informed locals (over a few glasses of the local rakshi, in Chimmey's Coffee Shop), that Lo Monthang is now endangered by the very plague that has ruined Kathmandu. Within two years, the Nepalese government hopes to build a highway into Lo Monthang -- and turn the once-forbidden city into another gruesome sacrifice.

Next page | Who will benefit from the destruction?