A plaintive singing drifted through the camp; similar to the Buddhist prayer songs we had heard while staying with a family in Kham, the easternmost cultural kingdom of Tibet, on our In Search of Shangri-La journey.

The singing was strangely moving, and unusual for mid afternoon. We walked in the direction of the pit toilets so our path would take us near the old woman. She sat beside a cow on the ground, singing to it, and feeding it fresh green hay. In our experience it has been the oldest woman of the family singing prayers. And it was again, the grandmother of the family owned parachute camp at Whiskey Nalla, half-way between Leh and Manali, in a 15,000 ft Great Himalaya Range desert valley.

Something was not right. Cows stand when they eat.

We pantomimed the question, “Why?” She understood and made a chopping motion across her thighs with one hand, then a breaking motion with both. The cow had broken both hind legs. It was beyond our communication to know the “how,” but the gravity of it was clear: a cow with broken legs will not live long.

She had milked this cow twice a day for years, put her out to graze, helped her give birth, brought her treats and became – as we now were – lost in her huge liquid eyes. The woman would share as much time with this old friend as possible, until the end. It is the Buddhist way.

I pantomimed that I had known cows as a boy, knew how to milk (although not very well), and felt sad for her. She looked at me with thankful eyes and saw mine fill with tears. We left her with a namaste and namaskar, and went back to our tent.

I sat in the back of our tent and lost control. Claire comforted me. I saw Mother and her cow, Pet, a Jersey, similar to the doomed cow. I felt a memory of the love she had for that cow, and how hard it was on Mother when the end came. After so many years without her, Mother was with me again. It was hard. And beautiful.

We talked about what we could do. How could we ease her pain? In Leh, we had been given two white scarves, gifts with great meaning we were told, by a special friend there. I wondered if we could pass mine on to her, if that was acceptable, the right thing to do? We decided to try. We walked out, and with what we hoped were properly folded hands, presented the scarf to her. She understood it was a special gift and took it with a smile, put it around her neck, held it to her lips, and resumed singing.

Claire and I walked back to our tent crying together. Yes, it was the right thing to do.

An hour or so later, the teenaged grandson sought me out, held my hands in his, looked me in the eyes, and bowed a thank you. She had shared with her family. We were showered with smiles and little gifts of food the rest of our time with them.

Some people wonder why we do the trips we do and face the challenges that take us to places like the middle of the Himalayas. Why suffer physically? Why endure doubt and sometimes fear?

Now you know…