After
visiting the Hindu temple, I returned to my guesthouse for dinner. It
was a delightful place with two verandas surrounded by gardens which
overlook the village of Dalhousie
and the green-carpeted hills around town. The Tamil family that runs
the guesthouse insisted on feeding me meals of gigantic proportions. I
was the only person staying there so I was delighted when she led me to
the family's dining room where a feast for the whole family was laid
out. I sat in front of the heaping place of fried rice and waited for
them to join me. Then I noticed there was just one plate at the table!
Apparently, they intended on me eating a meal that could easily feed
four people. I tried my best, but even after devouring twice what my
belly could hold, mounds of food lie in front of me. I thanked her for
a delicious meal and she assured me the food would not go to waste, so
I resigned myself to bed as I would need every bit of rest possible.

Five
hours later, at 2:30am, my alarm alerted me that it was time to start
hiking. I had some tea and cookies that she laid out for me, shouldered
my pack and began the ascent up Adams Peak.
The 7km climb is up steps most of the way (about 5200 of them) and a
2:30am start would put at the summit well before dawn. The path through
town was quiet with most of the stalls closed, and the first half hour
was a gradual slope that passed under the entrance arch, then by the
Japanese-Sri Lanka Friendship Dagoba. Street lights illuminate the path
during pilgrimage season and I could see the fluorescent bulbs snaking
their way over the hills and then climbing all the way to the summit.

Adams Peak is no mere hill either. Among a mountainous countryside, it stands
alone, impossible to go unnoticed, like a razor sharp tooth protruding
from a line of molars. Even from a distance, it is an imposing sight
with thick green foliage clinging to sides so steep that even I
questioned my ability to reach its summit. Aerial photos show a
mountain that stands alone, no surrounding peak even comparable in
size, with a staircase so steep that I couldn't even fathom so many
people (from children to grandparents) reaching the white temple that
sits like an impenetrable fortress on top. Nevertheless, as I reached
the first of hundreds of flights of stairs and begin to climb, I was
passed by mothers carrying their babies and barefoot pilgrims of 70
years and more as they descended from the summit in the dark. Tea
houses, shops and ambalamas (resting places to shelter weary pilgrims)
lined the steps nearly to the summit and left me questioning how such
items could possibly be carried up such a steep path.

Step after
step I trudged up the mountain, my legs moving at a slow but steady
pace and my heart pounding in my chest. To attempt the climb in the
heat of the day would be tortuous, for even in the cool hill country
climate, my shirt was quickly soaked in sweat. I can't even begin to
fathom how a staircase of concrete steps was constructed on such a
long, steep incline; even today such a feat would be a massive
undertaking. The last couple of kilometers were so steep that
I clutched the railway for safety, at 26-years old feeling wobbly on my
feet while 80-year old women hobbled barefoot on their way down with
half of a grueling pilgrimage completed. So many times I expected to
round a corner and be on top, but the trail just kept going.

When
alas I reached the summit temple, I marveled at the scene around me. A
hundred or more pilgrims ranging from swaddling babies to wrinkled
elders huddled in doorways and against the temple walls, wrapped in
blankets, extra clothes and each others arms, shivering
against the frigid wind that whipped across the exposed summit. The temperature at such elevation was brutally cold for a country like Sri Lanka
and whereas I had made the climb in a speedy hour and forty minutes,
nearly all of these pilgrims had started their climb at sunset and
endured the harsh cold of the night. To make matters worse, being a
temple, all were required to remove their shoes, and as I walked around
the concrete landing I could feel the heat being sucked from my body.
Fortunately, I had brought a sleeping bag so when I found a space among
the huddled, shivering pilgrims, I climbed inside and attempted to
sleep through the last hours of the night.

Around
5:30 am I stuck my head out of my bag and found that I was all alone
against the wall, a piercing wind haven driven everyone to more
sheltered spots. Many gathered against a nearby railing where in the
distance they watched as the first hint of light danced on the eastern
horizon. I found an unobstructed view, put a fresh memory card in my
camera, and sat back and watched the fireworks. For the next hour
colors began to skim the far-away mountaintops, the sky changing from
star-studded darkness to a gentle blue background. The colors of fire
began to streak the eastern sky, pinks mingling with purples as yellow
clashed with red. The vast landscape that had been invisible on the
ascent was now showing under a faint light. I marveled at the
stone-faced mountainsides and deep green plateaus, all of which seemed
so small from such a height. Over the loudspeaker came the familiar
drumbeats and chants of Buddhist monks, urging the sun up with their
prayers. My camera was clicking almost continuously now as the sky
changed with every minute and before long the entire eastern horizon
was awash in swirling colors. When the sun finally did appear over the
mountains, it was almost impossible to tell behind the pastel painting.
Suddenly, the sky was bright, the pinks and purples had faded, and a
great big ball of yellow fire consumed it all.

I walked around
the temple and observed the countless pilgrims who kneeled before the
temple with backs arched towards the ground and hands clasped in prayer
as the priests made the morning offering. Their chants rang in my ears
as I circled the temple, eyes peeled for the shadow of Adams Peak.
When alas it did appear, the sight was so marvelous that I wanted to
pull the worshippers from the ground and drag them to see. The sun
beamed down on the peak casting a shadow so perfect on the misty
mountainsides, it was difficult to believe that the steep-sided pyramid
was in fact a shadow, and not just a smaller version of Adams Peak.

Once the shadow had faded and the sun burnt away any hint of cold, I rapidly descended Adams Peak,
eager to beat the crowds. The views on the way down were stunning, a
misty mountain fog wrapped around the mountains as if the ocean had
rising and engulfed the hill country. Golden rays of light bounced off
the soft cloud pillows and sparkled in the sky. The brilliance of
morning carried me down the steep staircase as if I were floating. A
14-year old boy from Colombo
completed his pilgrimage with me, racing down the countless stairs
together. Near the end of our journey we were met by two Buddhist monks
who blessed our journey and tied ceremonial bracelets to our wrists. I
bid my young friend farewell and returned to my guesthouse where tea
and plates of food awaited me. My legs ached and my shirt dripped with
sweat but all I felt was the sense of satisfaction, having completed my
own pilgrimage to Adams Peak.