Sarah hiked the cable-supported suspension bridge over the rushing Marsyangdi River to a whitewashed stone wall. On the wall, a series of prayer wheels hid under a narrow yellow gable roof that extended the full length of the wall. At the far end, some fifty yards away, stood the village of Chame. Sarah turned the wheels as she passed and thought of Lukla. In many ways, this small village reminded her of that settlement on the edge of the Sagarmatha foothills. She swept her gaze over the village, taking in the colorful wood-framed shops and teahouses. Stacks of cordwood lay beyond their fenced-in side yards and in the fields beyond there were lowing yaks.
She turned to Penny, who was walking behind her. “To get to where Frank and I live, you go through a village just like this. And look,
