The descent to Birethanti village was much more laid-back and leisurely than the rest of our days on the trails.  There were still stone steps occasionally, but much of it looked like this:

After arriving at the end of our trek in Birethanti village, we took a short break for lunch and then Nawan, our guide, went to negotiate a taxi to Pokhara.

The taxi from Birethanti to Pokhara was easily the most terrifying car ride of my life.  I’ve been in some scary drives.  Taxis in Mumbai and Kathmandu.  Overnight buses in the pitch-black Andean highways.  Half-broken motorcycles in the Amazon.  Late-night solo road trips between Seattle and St. Louis fueled mostly by Dr. Pepper and cigarillos.  And I have some fantastic memories of my Spanish mom hanging halfway out of the car to scream, “LOCOS!” at suicidal passing motorcycles in Alicante.  But this taxi ride easily takes the cake.

The mountain passes are blind, hairpin curves wide enough for only one vehicle.  They’re covered with potholes, massive mud puddles and villagers bringing grasses and produce out of the hills to sell.  Drivers careen around corners, honking their horns and praying no one is there as they cruise around the bend.  When another vehicle comes into view, drivers basically play chicken with each other as they speed up to make it through any potholes or avoid pedestrians before slamming on their brakes to see who can do a better job of squeezing around the other.  As we were on the outside of the road with no barrier, it was even more ridiculous as a foul step would send us flipping down the mountain side.  We arrived in Pokhara after a harrowing 45 minutes and finally I could breathe again.

We said farewell to Nawan and Thankur, our guide and porter, and settled in to the relaxed and agenda-less atmosphere of Pokhara.