You arrive at the ridge and the canyon isn't there.
Fog has swallowed the entire view — not a light haze, but a total whiteout, visibility dropping to less than 50 feet. You wait. Ten minutes. Thirty. An hour. There is nothing to do but stand at the edge of something you can't see and trust that it's actually there.
Then the wind shifts. The white tears apart in front of you, and a green ridge appears far below, then another, then the full depth of the canyon dropping away under your feet.
You reach the bottom of the 3,000-step staircase, legs aching, and Rasong appears in front of you — slate-roofed houses scattered across a ridge deep inside the canyon walls.
A local is climbing the same stairs you just descended, carrying a bamboo basket loaded with supplies on their back, because the pulley is broken today. They pass you without slowing down. This is simply Tuesday for them.
You stop to catch your breath. They keep climbing toward Smit, toward the market, toward everything that 300 people in this village need that doesn't grow here.
The view from the top of Laitlum is what brought you. The climb you didn't have to take, and the people who take it because they have no choice, is what you actually remember.