c u on top - satyabrata dam

They (I would really like to know who this ‘they’ are!) say, there’s method in madness while I say there can never be a method without madness, at least not the kind of methods I follow or apply. I am shortly heading for another madcap enterprise of mine that is not my creation or concoction. Since the chances of getting back from it is remote and slim (just like my physical entity) I thought a prelude is in the order if not the conclusion; which may or may not be in the offing in the days to come. So here goes. I am headed for Afghanistan in less than two weeks, which, if I do manage to cross the obscure borders and enter, and get the entry stamped on my passport, would perhaps become the 137th or 138th country of my nomadic life. This does make me happy on one hand and also excited on the other. Excitement and thriving on the edge is my way of life, I know of none other even then this very exciting and decidedly dangerous expedition is not my doing; not entirely in a manner of spe

As another scoop of powder avalanche fell on top of my chest, compressing the tiny tent roof into my ribs further, I knew it was time again to hop out and shovel away the continuous debris of ice and snow that was falling from the top, burying us slowly but surely within our tent. Anyone who has ever used a Helsport Ringstind Superlight would know that this tent doesn’t come with elbow room. It’s the ultimate all thrills tent without a single frill. I nudged my partner in the rib, who remained listless as ever, looking in a daze at the roof of the tent. In the ghostly pallor of my headlamp he looks more dead than alive. I wriggle my wrist out of the sleeping bag and immediately recoil at the dense cold that claw at my innards and skin like a starving griffin. My right hipbone is pushing into the tent wall and I know fully well that beyond and right outside the thin tent fabric lies a 3000 ft void that simply drops down into a smooth wall of ice. But for the tent, my right side outer