Join me, the author, and my friend Bebe for a wild adventure in the Himalayan mountains of Ladakh, North India. On the way, we stop in Delhi, where the sights, sounds, and smells send my mind in a whirl. A family of four rides by, balanced precariously on a scooter. Bone thin dogs search every nook and cranny for food. A man who manufactures silk and sells it all over the world reveals the finest cream-colored silk I have ever seen - so light in weight and fine in texture I can barely feel it, as if an eiderdown goose feather floats by. Take a 12-hour bus ride on a Himalayan mountain pass that appears narrower than the bus itself, with a mad driver on speed to win a bet about who can drive this notorious route the fastest. 

How to reckon when Bebe falls madly besotted for a European mountain climber and takes off with him, leaving me 12,000 feet above sea level - 6,000 miles from home? Discombobulated by Bebe’s departure, I take a walk on a mountain path and breathe deeply, most likely the cleanest air on earth. While walking, I meet Tsering, a 25-year-old Tibetan man who lives in a refugee camp with 2,000 Tibetans who have escaped China’s brutal takeover of their country. After visiting the refugee camp several times and speaking with displaced families, a compelling story emerged. To bring attention to this story, I imagined producing a documentary about the Chinese/Tibetan situation. Shortly after this idea came to mind, a blizzard turned everything densely white. I went to visit Tsering for what I knew would be the last time and was horrified to see several buildings in the camp had buckled under the weight of falling snow. Tsering took me to his devastated home and crawled through it to the wreckage of his collapsed bed. He lifted the wire frame with one hand and reached under it with the other hand to retrieve a small metal box. What could be in this box that Tsering risked his life to retrieve? 

Imagine being in an old 16-seater plane flying over the Himalayan mountains when the plane hits an ice storm and the pilot makes an emergency landing on a secret Russian airfield hidden in a valley where, we are told, planes from Russia could refuel to reach China in case of war. Take a ride to your plane home in a battered taxi with a doddery driver and three holy men wearing gold-colored robes. It’s a 10-hour ride on narrow, bumpy roads whereupon, at different times, three of the four tires burst. When I ask the holy men why the tires burst, one says with a smile, “Perhaps you should not leave India.” Dear listener, this wild adventure awaits you.