by Lindsay Clark

Created on: February 26, 2009

"I may have made a truly horrifying decision. Pushed by the work of three assuring and ambiguously generous salesmen and a desperate desire to part with the urban jungle, my gosh, who knows why I flew to Kashmir. It's the kind of thrill I normally find enchanting, but I may have abandoned my survival instinct

The present days and previous months of travel are times of incredible personal vulnerability, and, while I dig my nose into my guidebook, I often have no power against the moments of frightening spontaneity that present themselves for the snatching. I'm drunk with Himalayan fever and prepared to cry in awe and fear for a chance to be among their magnitude."

The previous passage was written after my arrival to Nageen Lake in Srinagar. As the travel agent from Delhi warned me against, I once again did "too much thinkin'," and it led me to believe the explosions I heard from my perch on the houseboat balcony were gun shots and echoes of warfare. They were wedding celebrations.

Truth be recalled, I felt safer in that conflicted land, filled to capacity with armed Indian militia, than I did in bomb-riddled Delhi. Government officials spotted me on the tarmac and gave me a phone number to call if I felt, even for one instant, swindled or put in danger. Escorted by police into the growing mob outside the terminal, I found my ride without the slightest hassle.

Nature's peaks struck me on the plane, and nature's browning leaves reminded me of something I knew I desperately missed: autumn. Though I couldn't completely silence my skepticism for the trip up north, the majority of my time in Srinagar, Kashmir was spent completely relaxed. I awoke crazy for the Kashmiri tea and special flat bread of the region. I pounded though 300 pages of Indian fiction, which took place in the Himalayas, while sitting upon my lakeside throne. And I ate dinner in the family boat next door with my hosts and their homemade goodness. Old men rowed me across the lake as if I deserved it, past stretches of lily pads, ancient Moghul bridges, and reflected mountains, on a taxi boat that resembled the Dalai Lama's chaise lounge more than a means of transportation.

Fayaz, my host, scheduled a trek through the Gangabal Valley, fit with a cook, ponies, and their gypsy owners (gypsy meaning the acceptable term for Karakorum mountain people). It was my heart's desire, the reason I came to Kashmir, but October 6th came and went. I remained on the boat's porch writing this:

"This sky seems higher than

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