AT 7:30 A.M., THE CHINESE have lifted their cameras, so we go!

Hari hoists a 3,700-cubic-inch Lowe Alpine, fully packed, then throws a bigger blue pack on top, resting crosswise between his head and shoulders. Gopal slides the naamlo over his forehead and, from a squat, lifts his basket full of three full-size packs. Kharkhar grabs three seemingly brand-new packs lashed together with cord and carries them with a naamlo, shoulder straps and waist belt flapping. I shimmy into position. Today, I am heinously burdened with the entire personal belongings of Shiva (small pack), Kharkhar (wool hat and a neon ski jacket that was warm and waterproof 20 years ago), Hari (extra sweater), and Gopal (not so much as a booger).

The Chinese spur us away from Hotel Greenland, but as soon as we're on the trail, Kharkhar says, "Bistaarai jaanus" ("Go slowly") and we drop off the back, stopping briefly about every 15 minutes at the trailside benches, called chautaraas, as will be our habit. This slow, efficient pace is kind of bothersome. I'm used to walking like the Chinese—briskly, then not at all during yummy snacktime—and I can't get the hang of the basket. It lists to the left after each fresh start, causing the sternocleidomastoid muscles stretching from my ear to my shoulder to tense like cables. Once off kilter, it slips farther.

Kharkhar, Gopal, and Hari have no such problems. We plod along toward Ghandruk, six and a half miles away. Our heads constantly bowed, the darkening light and background noise of chirping birds make me think we've entered a forest. As we walk, my only view is what is right in front of my feet: a slate path that gives way to mossy roots and dirt speckled with crushed fern. Just before lunch, I see a shiny chewing-gum wrapper. The Himalayas are truly breathtaking.

Kharkhar asks how I'm doing. I wiggle my head from side to side to signal "OK," and my neck cracks.

At 2:30, the Chinese are beginning to bonk, and we stop in Landruk well behind schedule. Guide Shiva informs them that they must decide if they want to stick to the original plan, descending 1,000 feet to the Modi River, directly below, and climbing 2,100 feet of stairs to Ghandruk. The discussion carries the gravity of one made at the Hillary Step. Cowboy borrows Shiva's photocopied map, gathers the six women in a semicircle forum, and hails Mountain on his red Motorola walkie-talkie. Watches are checked. Questions are asked. It seems to come down to hot showers.

Fifteen minutes of democratic squawking later, Cowboy turns to Shiva and says, "We decide to go to Ghandruk." They race off.

Kharkhar, not surprised, says, "Yup, they're going to Ghandruk."

Hari, staring across the valley, says, "We won't make it till seven tonight."

Then, the only words Gopal says all day: "It's very far."

None of this is said with acrimony. There's a tinge of bafflement—as in, "How do the Chinese, tired as they already are, expect to make it?"—and a note of foreboding—as in, "Oh, boy, we're not gonna eat daal bhaat until late"—but overall, the comments are issued in an even timbre.

We push off. "Don't descend too fast or your balls will sag," Kharkhar advises.