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 annually contested with a mountain torrent for the right of way, and, after 20 miles of the foregoing, when the village of Bichako is reached, what may be called the "river nightmare" commences. This is the dream of being a small human speck in a vast landscape of boulders. Minimized to the size of an ant, mile after mile you struggle, the reflected heat from every stone stinging like a whip, and, hours having passed, you raise your tired eyes to look around, and there are the same boulders before you, behind you, and on each side of you, seeming to return your scowl with a bland and serene expression. And so you pass through all the stages of a dreadful night, endless broken steps up which you toil and pant, only to have to plunge down monotonous miles of rock-cut ledges, being denied even that questionable pleasure, known only in the dream-world, of the flying sensation, as every foot of the way has to be exhaustively toiled. But to turn from the visionary to the stern reality.

The road to Katmandu is an extremely rough and varied one, boring its way like a