Frequently, especially in valley country, small villages lay near the trail. Often there were herders with their large flocks of sheep.
Although the trail slanted up and down, from valley to mountain pass and back down again, the way led constantly higher toward the white-capped peaks that have been called "The Backbone of the World." Beyond them, many hundreds of miles away, lay Nepal and India.
It was always cool now, and the Americans and Sing wore windbreakers and woolen sweaters. The bearers donned padded long coats. At night, the sleeping bags were comfortable; without them the Americans would have been chilled through and through.
"Make a guess, Sing," Rick requested. "How many more days to Korse Lenken?"
Sing counted on his fingers. "With fortune, maybe we'll get there late day after tomorrow. Depends on the trails."
Zircon sipped steaming tea standing up. He was too saddle sore to sit down. "Where do we camp tonight?"
"A mile or two past Llhan Huang. I know a good water supply there."
The bearers were standing around waiting patiently, already finished with cleaning up and packing, except for the Americans' teacups. They downed the last swallows of tea and handed the cups to Sing, then swung into the saddle again.
"I hope Sing is right about getting there day after tomorrow," Rick said as he shifted uncomfortably in the "chafing seat," as he called it. "This hay-burner is no luxury liner."
"Ditto," Scotty agreed. "Besides, I'm anxious to see Chahda."