I managed to track down a pilot who claimed to be one of the few who could land here.
I trusted him. Mostly.

The altitude is doing weird things to my hair and possibly my brain. The air here is thick, wet, and aggressively spiritual. I woke up this morning to a rooster chanting, “Om,” and I’m 80% sure he meant it. With a potential demoness nearby, who can blame him? As long as she keeps her hands off my coffee, I’m good. The goat, on the other hand, absolutely tried to steal my thermos and whisper something about enlightenment.

The coffee? Sublime. A rare variety called Red Shadow, grown on a misty farm tucked between twin ridges where the clouds sneak in sideways like they’re trying not to be seen. I drank three cups before realizing I was still wearing my backpack. The farmer said the beans are sun-dried while monks chant positive affirmations at them. He also claimed the beans rearrange themselves into Sanskrit if you stare long enough. Honestly? I tasted the inner peace—and possibly regret.

The village market was a full-on sensory ambush. Fermented things, pickled things, and at least one stand selling something that tried to bite me back. One vendor insisted he was selling “whisper bark” that could predict the weather. Everything happens beneath this hand-carved wooden arch that’s older than modern plumbing. I asked one woman what it meant and she said, “Yes,” which is... helpful? Maybe it’s a regional dialect for “run.”

Visited a local monastery — so. many. steps. My legs threatened to unionize by step 103. At the top? Prayer flags, clouds, and a monk named Dawa who beat me in arm wrestling and latte art. Nice guy. Hates decaf. Claims to have once brewed coffee using only moonlight and psychic energy. He also warned me about another temple shaped like a stupa—said the top floor is heaven, but it’s the basement where “the real drama” happens. I didn’t ask.

Tomorrow, I’m catching a ride with a man named Tashi who drives like he’s on fire and being chased by even faster fire. I’ve tried explaining I’m searching for beans that are spiritual, and he keeps trying to take me to a lake that only shows itself when the wind shifts just right—or if you hum in C sharp. Might be a weather thing. Might be ghosts. Or both.

If this is my last entry, tell Susan from accounting she was right: I did peak too soon.
Also, she still owes me a bag of that Ethiopian medium roast she hoards in her desk drawer.

Still alive (barely),
—Joe