★★★★☆ | Travel Writing | Print | Own | StoryGraph | Goodreads
In 1972, Peter Matthiessen lost his wife to cancer. The following September, he embarked on a quixotic trek across the Himalayas to catch a glimpse of the elusive Snow Leopard. At one level, this book is a day-by-day account of that journey written feverishly within his tent each night, amidst rain and mud, ice and snow. We soon understand this is ultimately a spiritual quest for Matthiessen as he processes his grief. He relates lessons of Zen Buddhism and shares flashbacks to the time leading up to his wife’s death that I found both instructive and moving.
This is a difficult book to read on a couple of levels. There is a lot of unfamiliar vocabulary for places and plants and animals that I could never quite penetrate even after three hundred pages of practice. The journey itself is a slog, with either waiting for weather or supplies, or feeling utterly exhausted while hiking. And Matthiessen himself isn’t very likable. He often complains about the porters and sherpas who carry his supplies, or the ignorance of the local people he meets. He left his eight-year-old son behind, who must have been awash in grief for his dead mother (what kind of father does that?). He is so caught up with capturing everything he experiences in his journal, then complains of the elusiveness of enlightenment.
Frustration at the paltriness of words drives me to write, but there is more of Shey in a single sheep hair, in one withered sprig of everlasting, than in all these notes; to strive for permanence in what I think I have perceived is to miss the point.
Despite all this, a reader’s fortitude is rewarded with passages that make you stop and linger:
From the river above Darbang comes evil thunder. The cliffs are falling, and three wet dogs that scavenge in the schoolyard turn to listen. Rocks tremble and bound into the river, which after two days of heavy rain is rushing, roaring, lunging through the canyon.
And,
In the early light, the rock shadows on the snow are sharp; in the tension between light and dark is the power of the universe. This stillness to which all returns, this is reality, and soul and sanity have no more meaning here than a gust of snow; such transience and insignificance are exalting, terrifying, all at once, like the sudden discovery, in meditation, of one’s own transparence. Snow mountains, more than sea or sky, serve as a mirror to one’s own true being, utterly still, utterly clear, a void, an Emptiness without life or sound that carries in Itself all life, all sound. Yet as long as I remain an “I” who is conscious of the void and stands apart from it, there will remain a snow mist on the mirror.
Might Matthiessen have intended this book to be a challenge to read, a kind of mirroring of his own 500-mile journey through the ice and snow? Might he have intended the same kind of reward for his readers that any truly harrowing quest provides? Maybe so. I do feel like I’ve been through the wringer with this one. Like I’ve put down a heavy weight I’ve been carrying for a long while. I can’t really decide whether I hated the book or loved it. Maybe a little of both. But I do feel changed for having read it.
Highlights
In what became known as the Four Noble Truths, Sakyamuni perceived that man’s existence is inseparable from sorrow; that the cause of suffering is craving; that peace is attained by extinguishing craving; that this liberation may be brought about by following the Eight-fold Path: right attention to one’s understanding, intentions, speech, and actions; right livelihood, effort, mindfulness; right concentration, by which is meant the unification of the self through sitting yoga.
Amazingly, we take for granted that instinct for survival, fear of death, must separate us from the happiness of pure and uninterpreted experience, in which body, mind, and nature are the same. And this debasement of our vision, the retreat from wonder, the backing away like lobsters from free-swimming life into safe crannies, the desperate instinct that our life passes unlived, is reflected in proliferation without joy, corrosive money rot, the gross befouling of the earth and air and water from which we came.
“Do we really know what electricity is? By knowing the laws according to which it acts and by making use of them, we still do not know the origin or the real nature of this force, which ultimately may be the very source of life, and consciousness, the divine power and mover of all that exists.”— Lama Anagarika Govinda, The Way of the White Clouds
“All worldly pursuits have but the one unavoidable and inevitable end, which is sorrow: acquisitions end in dispersion; buildings, in destruction; meetings, in separation; births, in death. Knowing this, one should from the very first renounce acquisition and heaping-up, and building and meeting, and . . . set about realizing the Truth. . . . Life is short, and the time of death is uncertain; so apply yourselves to meditation.” — Buddha
In the clearness of this Himalayan air, mountains draw near, and in such splendor, tears come quietly to my eyes and cool on my sunburned cheeks. This is not mere soft-mindedness, nor am I all that silly with the altitude. My head has cleared in these weeks free of intrusions—mail, telephones, people and their needs—and I respond to things spontaneously, without defensive or self-conscious screens. Still, all this feeling is astonishing: not so long ago I could say truthfully that I had not shed a tear in twenty years.
I love the common miracles—the murmur of my friends at evening, the clay fires of smudgy juniper, the coarse dull food, the hardship and simplicity, the contentment of doing one thing at a time: when I take my blue tin cup into my hand, that is all I do. We have had no news of modern times since late September, and will have none until December, and gradually my mind has cleared itself, and wind and sun pour through my head, as through a bell. Though we talk little here, I am never lonely; I am returned into myself.