If the horse took one step forward, she knew she would plunge to her death down the steep, never-ending ravine. Cold wind swept across the barren mountainside, finding its way under her hat, coat, and scarf. Holding back on the reins, she slowly slipped off the pony and turned to look back.
Ringing round her in a stark kalaidascope of blinding white light was the Himilaya. She squinted her eyes and focussed right behind her. "Respected Holy One, Gungzin Dharmalazu, *maintenant se que? En haut et terminé ou revenir?." Fortunately the Benevolent One understood her mangled French because she wasn't getting anywhere with web-based Tibetan translation.
*what the heck do we do now?*
Tears from the wind and frustration stung her eyes. Her entire life, all Dearly Beloved Rypinski had ever wanted was to see Shangri-La. Despite her growing up in Brooklyn, she'd been raised by flower-children parents and, instead of rebelling, she'd gone beyond the hype and drugs of their culture, to a real study and embracing of Eastern spirituality. Now, here she was, tantalisingly close, with a respected Holy Man to guide her and a huge landslide made passage impossible. What was she to do?